Ash
by MsWolffe
Summary: A favour for a favour. A life for a life. She had just wanted to get even. CH17 "She makes a noncommittal sound- something between 'sorry' and 'I don't care', but at least she's got the decency to avoid his eyes."
1. Chapter 1

**HEY YEAH so I'm awful and I shouldn't be starting another story but hey I am terrible anyways so...**

 **Yeah. Watched AoU again and I'm still not over the ending.**

 **Reviews, follows and favourites always appreciated.**

 **MS out.**

* * *

 **Chapter I**

 **Blood.**

 **(Alternatively: the author is in full denial about canon events.)**

* * *

And it had started like such a good day and all.

Well, as _good_ as it gets on a little Eastern European country with an unstable government and constant revolts. But... at least the weather had been nice? Small mercies.

She sighed and looked at her phone- nothing, no reply.

She sighed again.

It had all been a false alarm, the old book she was supposed to find buried under the remains of what had been some God-forsaken library- once upon a time before the riots, maybe-wasn't there, probably hadn't been in a long time, and she briefly wondered if it had been stolen or simply used to fuel a fire during cold Sokovian nights.

She hoped it was the second.

She checked her phone again- still no answer.

And she had been so eager when she started to dig into the rubble. She probably still had some grime or dirt or _something_ on her face. Looking down to her favourite dress, she noticed it had gotten quite dirty too. Her mood darkened, but she knew it could still be salvaged after a wash. Or two.

Perhaps three.

She sighed again.

How long had it been already? Three years chasing after this tome?

'Three years, four months and a handful of days', a voice supplemented in her head. And still nothing.

And it had been a good lead this time too! Honestly, she felt miserable. After all her troubles, coming back empty-handed was going to be so mortifying.

"I could be hit by a train and I'd feel less like crap than now." She muttered to no one in particular.

And then her phone's text message alert went off with a _ding_. She could have walked and texted, probably. She could have. But she didn't.

' _Sry abt the wild-goose chase. Got u a flight back to Bruges 08:00.'_

She finally smiled- at least something good! Yes, she was probably going to have to wake up at five in the morning in order to be there on time, but she was alright with it- she honestly just wanted to go back to Belgium, to her nice room in the nice house she had rented and pamper herself for a few days before deciding where to go next.

Buenos Aires sounded good at this time of the year.

So even though she could have walked and texted, she didn't. She kept her feet still on the ground and started to type a thank you, but she only got to the 'tha'.

Because that's when the ground rumbled and everything went to hell.

It couldn't have been an earthquake. Confused, she listened to the screaming people and the horrible noise of metal on metal before she actually turned to her left, and there-

 _A train._

A runaway train, and going straight to her. She didn't have time to move, she didn't have time to do anything else but curse her dumb luck- she _should_ have known, this far in her life, not to tempt the universe- and mutter a simple _'Well, fuck'_ before closing her eyes and bracing herself for the inevitable impact.

Except... Except she didn't feel any pain. She didn't think dying would be this painless, honestly, at least not for her. Like the train never reached her. She didn't even feel her boots on the floor anymore.

And that's when she realised that no, the train hadn't got to her and yes, she was very much alive and _just why was someone carrying her in their arms?_

"Are you alright?" A voice spoke breathlessly somewhere near her in Sokovian- she had rushed to learn the basics of the language, and it had been for nothing. Somewhere _much_ closer than what she had been expecting.

She opened her eyes and looked up to impossibly blue eyes peering curiously down at her. 'Too blue', she thought, 'like Nicholas Sparks blue'. And along with the eyes there was a stubble and what she thought as a bad dye-job- because honestly, who left the roots like _that_?

"Uh." Was all the eloquence she could muster. Well, she had been just- nearly- hit by a train.

She blinked.

"That's a ridiculous shade of blue." She mentally slapped herself. Honestly, of all the things to say...?

The man scrunched up his face, most likely in confusion- either he didn't understand her or he thought she was ridiculous.

She hoped it was the first case.

(It was probably the second.)

"You alright?" He repeated, in English this time, thick with his accent.

"Yes. I'm- yes. Just peachy." She then motioned towards the ground, uneasy with her situation. "Do you mind...?"

"Oh. Yes."

He put her down carefully and she took the time to study him. He was tall- well, from her perspective everyone was pretty much _tall_ , and he was looking so, so very tired. Palms on his slightly-bent knees, he was breathing hard, like he had just run a marathon.

"You-" He breathed. "Leave." He then pointed to her right. "There- follow Captain Rogers."

She was just about to ask who was this Captain Rogers when her vision was hogged by a white red and blue shield. A shield that was accompanying every action figure on every eight-year-old room.

(And probably more adults' room than expected.)

 _Steve_ Rogers. Right. She turned around, intent on at least thanking the man with the Bad-Dye-Job and the perfect timing, but he wasn't there anymore. She furrowed her brow- okay, so he had saved her life and now she owed him. She hated being in debt.

 _Hated it._

Following Captain America- because who called him _Captain Rogers_ besides strange men with Bad-Dye-Jobs?- she entertained the thought of, once all of this, whatever it was, was over, thanking the guy properly. Maybe she could bake him muffins or something. She picked up her pace at _Captain Rogers_ bark of orders. This, whatever it was, was a bit too much for her.

She just had wanted to find a dusty old book and maybe some good coffee.

* * *

Okay, so, the city? Yes, it was _flying_ now, and for whatever information she could gather from the people around her, there was something like ' _evil robot trying to destroy the world'_ and _'avengers trying to save the world'_ going on. And, since _obviously_ this was a bad movie, Bad-Dye-Job with Ridiculously Blue Eyes was with them. And he was super fast, apparently. That explained his timing.

She picked at her nails, waiting patiently to aboard the Helicarrier, musing how in the whole universe was she going to get even with a freaking superhero who saved her life. Muffins weren't enough of a 'thank you'. What do you bake in those cases?

...A cheesecake?

She looked up when a woman started screaming and pointing, and then she looked back when the man she recognised as Hawkeye ran back to grab a child that had been left behind. Oh, look and there was Bad-Dye-Job! Well, better to start with a verbal thank you to at least ease the feeling of crushing debt she was experiencing at the pit of her stomach. And so, she went to take a step towards him-

When gunshots started to deafen her and she realised that a jet- with a robot, probably, because _robots_ , right?- was shooting at the archer and the kid and _no_ , _no, no, it's just a kid_ , but then they weren't there and the jet was gone and instead of Hawkeye and the child there was Blue Eyes, stone still and filled with bullets and his shirt was starting to stain red and then he was falling-

And she didn't think.

He couldn't do that. He couldn't save her life and then just _die!_ It was unfair to her, honestly, what, was she supposed to just live with the terrible feeling of owing someone who had gone up and _died?_

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not today.

She needed to get even with him.

So she didn't think.

Instead, she ducked under _Captain Rogers_ arm and ran, stained dress fluttering around her knees until she skidded to a halt next to the fallen man. She practically threw herself on the ground and tsk'ed at the massive amount of blood gushing out of him. Placing a hand on his chest, she blocked the whole world out with a slippery word. Twelve. Twelve bullets. Somehow, none of them had actually hit his heart; and only one of them a lung. Small mercies, she thanked the universe, and with another word she _pushed_ a bit of her life into him. Just a bit, just to get him to the Helicarrier and the medical bay she completely _hoped_ was inside.

If not, she- _he_ \- was thoroughly fucked.

"Okay pretty eyes." She mumbled. "Let's get even."

* * *

Only when she was inside, _Captain Rogers_ hot on her trail with her saviour's- _ew_ \- limp body, and screaming at the people to move, give her space, she needed to get him to a gurney or table or whatever they had, she realised her bag was missing. It had been missing since the train had almost hit her, and only now she thought of it.

His chances at survival were fewer and fewer every second.

"Get me a knife!" She barked at _Captain Rogers_ after Bad-Dye-Job had been put on a surgery table and the people- _ew, so much people-_ had been pretty much kicked out of the small room. "And a bucket! Does anyone know his blood type?!"

Hawkeye- he had been the one to pretty much kick the people out of the small room- handed her a short knife he kept inside his boot and then answered her: "His sister probably knows. I'll go get her."

She closed her eyes, tight. Great. He had a sister now. It wasn't as if there was no family to mourn him. Just her luck.

At least, both the archer and the soldier were calm-given the circumstances- and smart enough not to question her. They didn't even once ask if she was a doctor. She smirked ruefully while tying away her waves of hair.

She wouldn't have lied if they had asked her.

"Nobody enters except him and the sister." She commanded towards _Captain Rogers_ general direction. "And I'm _really_ going to need that bucket!"

She put a hand on his chest again and he barely stirred. At least he was still conscious- but how long? She had to choose now- he needed blood, he needed the bullets out, he needed his organs patched up. And he needed all of that at the same time.

And _of course_ the knife just had to be completely made of steel, not a single drop of silver on the blade's composition. At least it wasn't serrated.

Small mercies, she chanted like a mantra, small mercies.

Gripping the hilt tightly in her hand, she took the sharp blade to the inner side of her right wrist and started to drew blood-

"What on earth are you doing!?"

She shut her eyes. As if steel wasn't enough.

It could have been wore. It could have been iron. _Small mercies_.

"I am trying to save his life, Captain. _Let me do it."_ She ground out. He was quiet afterwards, but a loud sort of quiet. She could hear his questions as clear as if he was screaming.

 _Why, how, what, why, how what, why, how, what..._

Nevermind that. She kept cutting her skin in the shapes she knew, drawing more and more blood, until all of her inner arm, from her wrist to her elbow was covered in runes.

And blood. So much blood everywhere.

Blood. Bullets. Organs.

"I hate multitasking." She muttered.

And then she started to work.

* * *

"Where's Pietro?!" Wanda screamed into the tiny microphone on her clothes again, but nobody answered. She had felt it, his pain, they were connected, they probably had been since before they got their powers. He couldn't be, he couldn't be-

She tore that robot's heart out, just in case. She was full of bitterness and blind rage and why _wasn't anyone answering?!_

"Where's my brother?!" She was running now, not waiting to hear the news, she wanted to- no, she _needed to-_

"Wanda." Finally, the intercom crackled to life. She recognised the voice of the archer. "Pietro... He's been shot."

That confirmed it then, she had spent all that time fighting the Avengers, making them live their worst fears, only for her worst fear to come true in the end.

There was a sort of poetic justice to all of it.

But she didn't care, because it was Pietro, and it was her other half, her twin, and now he was-

"There's a woman, she's trying to save him. She's asking for you."

" _Where?"_

She never ran faster in her whole life like in that moment. Looking back on it, her brother would have probably been proud of her speed.

She briefly stopped when she found the archer along her way, and even then only a second's length to hear the rushed directions of the room. And there were people in her way, so much people that she considered using her powers to get them _away_ , but Hawkeye was running in front of her, giving her a clear path, and she never felt more gratitude towards the archer than that point in her life.

She all but stumbled through the door- and into Captain America's back- before straightening and looking around wildly.

"What-?!"

There was a woman, a girl, towering over Pietro. She had both her hands on his-now naked- chest and was slightly hunched, her eyes closed tight. She was muttering... praying... chanting? Words in a language Wanda didn't understand, and one of her arms was covered in blood.

And her brother- oh, there was _so much blood_ and he looked _so bad_ , as if life was escaping him and there was nothing they could do about it- Wanda ran to his side, tears in her face, and grabbed one of his hands between hers tightly.

The woman kept her actions, in some sort of trance.

"Pietro. It's me, it's Wanda. I'm here, I'm here..." Her words where tumbling out in their native tongue. "Stay with me brother. Stay with me, please. You promised, you promised..." She chanted.

"You promised..."

His fingers barely tightened in her hands. Barely. Just a hint of movement.

"You're the sister?"

Wanda raised her head and she looked into eyes of ice and steel, and she nodded once. The woman nodded back.

"Keep talking to him, keep him conscious." She instructed. "Slap him if you have to. You know his blood type?"

And how could she not after tests and tests and tests- that _hurt_ \- and needles and syringes and more tests? They had had charts with all of their specifics, and she had read them more than once through the scientists minds.

"A positive."

The Woman nodded again, and looked briefly at Hawkeye. "You heard, go get the blood. I don't care if you need to threaten donors or raid the medical supplies. He needs it."

There was all to that, and she started to mutter again in strange tongues. Wanda tore her eyes from Pietro's pale face and looked at the Woman again- her eyes were closed, she was tense, her hands firmly and slowly moving over his chest.

And her arm. So much blood.

And in between the blood Wanda could see spidery scribbles that shone stark white against the red.

It went on for an hour, or maybe ten minutes, or just two. Wanda didn't know, she didn't care, what she knew was the her brother was _dying_ , but maybe not so much, because at some point the blood stopped gushing like a flood and he had his eyes barely open, glassy, but they were open, and blinking slowly.

The Woman stopped her words and lifted one hand towards the Captain.

"Bucket." She rasped. "Now." Her eyes firmly on the half-dead man's chest, double and triple-checking her job.

Wanda watched as she received the bucket, one hand- the one with the bloody arm- still on her brother's chest, and she was going to ask what was she going to do with it when she started coughing violently and then heaving until there was blood coming out of her mouth, so much blood, with each cough, and Wanda stood stock still because if she died now what was going to happen with his brother? And the Captain was at the woman's side in a breath's length and he was looking at her without knowing what to do because she was vomiting blood into the stupid bucket and she still had one hand pressed firmly against Pietro's chest and she looked pained but her eyes were still cold and hard...

And that's when they heard the first. A small _clank_ against the metal bucket, and then two, and three... Wanda counted up to twelve _clanks_ of metal against metal before the Woman shoved the bucket into the soldier's hands and looked straight into Wanda's eyes, sweat-stuck silver hair in her forehead and blood smears in her face from where she had ran her now free hand.

"Get a nurse or someone trained."She breathed heavily. "Hook him to the blood. He'll probably still need stitches and a lot o bandages, but his organs are fixed and he's mostly stable."

"What will you do?" Wanda asked her frantically, because how could it be that for some reason this Woman could chant strange things and bleed herself out and apparently save her brother but she couldn't finish the job...?

"That's a stupid question." She closed her eyes."I hate multitasking." And then she passed out.

* * *

Clint Barton entered the room with bags of blood in his hands and a Sokovian nurse close behind with more supplies only to find Steve half balancing an unconscious Woman on one arm and a bucket on the other, looking at a complete loss of words.

Wanda talked hurriedly at the nurse in Sokovian, and the older woman started the transfusion with practised fingers, while the younger girl stood still holding her brother's hand and muttering things in their native language.

"What-?" But Steve shook his head slightly and offered him the bucket wordlessly so that he could carry the girl in both of his arms. She was tiny.

"What's this?" The archer asked.

"She started to... vomit blood at the end." He explained. "And... _that._ "

Clint peered inside the bucket, where small forms glinted against the dark blood. He closed his fingers against a shape and knew what it was before he drew it out.

"I... Bullets?" He stared at the bloody little thing in his hand. "You're telling me she vomited bullets?"

Steve looked down at the girl in her arms and briefly wondered where to put her. Perhaps they could bring a gurney into the room- it honestly seemed one of the only rooms that wasn't crowded, and she didn't look worse for wear- if you ignored the blood stains all over her. Just... just unconscious. The nurse should check on her afterwards though, just in case.

Her arm had stopped bleeding as soon as she finished coughing up.

"I don't think she vomited bullets." He explained slowly, trying to fully understand the situation. They were not strangers to... odd people. Powers. Enhanced humans. Things that shouldn't be. Thor, for God's sake, _Thor_. But this had been different, and so very bloody, and her foreign words had left an odd humming in the air of the room. "I think... I think she... somehow... spit out _his_ bullets? The ones that were shot at him."

Clint ran a hand through his hair, his eyes going from the limp girl and all of the white in her that was now red, to the slightly-less-than-before-limp boy (or, he was still a boy in his eyes), who was being patched up by the nurse and being watched over by his sister.

"Well..." The archer mused. "Fury's gonna have a field day with her."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you guys for the follows, favs, and reviews! I'm happy you're liking it so far.**

 **P.S. Dr. Cho is alright in my story.**

* * *

 **Chapter II**

 **Debts Repaid.**

 **(Or, our main character is totally comfortable covered in blood.)**

* * *

She rarely Dreams, what she has at night are Nightmares, Nightmares in which she takes solace. In between the velvety darkness there are claws and fangs and horns that welcome her, that whisper to her, urge her to fall back into the ancient collective conscience of the world. The Nightmares are the only place she can talk to the ones long gone, to the ones that exist in other planes of the universe.

Or to the ones that are too old-fashioned to buy a cell phone and too paranoid to use any sort of modern communication device.

Sometimes, in the Nightmares, she talks to herself, the part of her that is Herself and Not-Herself, that looks just like her but her eyes are all black, her smile has too much teeth.

Not-She started to take form the first time she drew her own blood.

Not-She's the Unconscious part of her Self, the one that she rarely listens to when she's awake, the one who controls and brings forth instincts and who reaches into the darkness of the little forgotten parts of the mind to bring things back to the conscious side.

It exists in everyone. Just not everyone talks to it face to face.

"That was stupid." Not-She says, arms crossed across her chest.

"So insightful." She mutters, running a hand down her face. Everything aches.

"Not only you exhausted ourself, but you also used _steel_. _Steel._ You realise how vulnerable we are now, right?"

" _Yes."_ She briefly wondered if people were this exasperated when she talked like that, all bitterness and irony and better-than-you attitude.

Probably.

"And what for?" Not-She ranted on. "Some person you've never met before? It was a battle. Soldiers fall in battle. That's all that there is to it."

"He saved our life." She sighed. "Do you honestly think it was better to have that held over our head? That's a pretty big debt to repay."

Not-She nodded slowly. "I guess. A life for a life, then?"

"A favour for a favour. And that's all there is to it." She noticed the whispers in the Dark start to quiet down slowly, her vision being invaded by soft fog, signalling the end of the Nightmare. The waking world was calling back.

"A life for a life..." Not-She smiled ruefully. "That's a good deal as it gets."

* * *

Wanda sat on a chair next to her sleeping brother. It had been almost twenty hours since Pietro had been shot down, and they were now in what Stark had called the Avengers Tower, in a lab that also doubled as a medical bay. The blood transfusion had gone smoothly, and slowly her brother's condition had improved until he woke up, foggy and hazy and thirsty, for an hour or so. He then slept again soundly.

Dr. Cho had conducted an exhaustive set of exams and assured Wanda he was completely out of harm's way now, that, somehow, all of his organs were intact and there was not even a trace of the smallest shrapnel inside his body.

His chest remained bandaged, however, as the wounds weren't completely closed. One required stitches, while the others were just disinfected and bandaged. Pietro had argued, but Dr. Cho had insisted he stayed another day in the hospital, just to make sure everything was alright.

He was going to end with more than a few scars, the doctor had said, but Wanda couldn't care any less about that, for as long as he was alive and well.

Her eyes flitted from Pietro's face to the Woman on the next bed. Unsure of what to make of her, the Avengers had come to the decision of taking her to the Tower until she woke up- she was apparently unharmed, but she hadn't moved since she fainted, almost a whole day ago.

Only then she stirred, first breathing hard, then, scrunching up her delicate face and opening her eyes.

She blinked.

Then she suddenly sat up on the bed, and Wanda almost used her powers on her when she swayed. She watched the Woman blink slowly with sleep-ridden eyes, and then eye the room curiously before turning her head bit by bit, deliberately, to her right.

The younger twin noticed she first eyed her brother with an almost clinical look, her icy eyes taking in his sleeping form in what seemed like minutes, before she nodded almost imperceptibly and found Wanda's eyes.

How could someone have such a sweet face and eyes so cold?

"Thank you." Wanda spoke first. "For saving my brother."

The Woman shrugged with one shoulder. "He saved me. I just saved him back."

How could someone disregard what she had done so easily? Wanda had been there, and through the stress and shock and all, she had seen all the blood and all the pain and she had vomited _bullets!_

"Him and I..." Wanda spoke slowly. "We're ten and our parents die, and then it's just the two of us. Nobody else." Until now, she thinks, because Steve Rogers says they're part of the team now, part of the Avengers, if they want, and maybe they're not so alone anymore. "Pietro is my twin. My world. Everything."

And then the Woman raises her eyebrows and hums, looking back at her brother.

"Pietro." She tries to imitate the way Wanda pronounced it. "That his name?"

"I- Yes. You didn't know?"

"Why would I?"

Wanda scrunches up her nose then because- why had she saved him when she didn't even know his name? And it must have been obvious on her face, because she didn't even have to ask.

"I told you: he saved me; I just saved him back. He made sure a train didn't run over me so..."

"So you... bleed and vomit blood until you faint?"

She set her mouth on a firm line and then ran a hand over her eyes, taking the sleep away.

Her hands were still caked in dried blood.

As was her dress and the corners of her mouth.

"You're making me sound better than I am. I was just, I don't know, reckless. I just didn't want to owe him that much and not being able to repay him."

They fell in silence then, only just slightly tense, both of them looking back at Pietro, and then:

"My name is Wanda." She offered.

The Woman nodded.

"Ash."

"Ash?" She wasn't completely fluent in English, and sometimes she forgot words, but even to her that sounded as a strange name, a bit of a sad name.

"Ash. Aisling, but Ash."

And then, the question that had been on everyone's minds for almost a day now, both her and the Avengers:

"Are you enhanced?"

Wanda watched as Ash scrunched up her face, obviously unfamiliar with the term.

"Like me." She clarified. "And my brother."

"You mean that's why he's fast? Because he's, ah, _'enhanced'_?

Wanda nodded.

"And you? What do you do?" A gleam of curiosity entered her pale eyes. Wanda smiled.

She then shrugged.

"Move things. Read minds. Do things."

" _Do things?"_ Ash snorted, amused by her words. "And no, I'm not... enhanced." She rolled the word in her tongue, tasting it. _Enhanced._ Sounded like a glorified version of 'unnatural' or 'weird' to her, but to each their own, she supposed.

Wanda titled her head to the side. "Then how...?"

"You'd call it, ah, magic, I guess. Or magick, with a K, or The Craft if you're feeling pretentious. Draw some blood, say a few words, sometimes use plants or whatnot and then stuff happens."

"You are a witch?" Her eyes widened. Yes, yes, both she and her brother could do amazing things, and yes, she had seen _Thor_ , but there was a line between aliens and experiments and... Witches.

Or so she thought.

"Of sorts."

"And what you did to Pietro was magic?" She was still trying to wrap her head around the term.

"Yes. I could talk you through it but it's a long and boring and complicated explanation. But yes, magic."

 _Blood magic._ And she had used a steel knife and all. The runes were probably going to scar now. She sighed, her left hand automatically going to touch her inner right arm- it _itched_ \- and her eyes widened; her arm, the whole length of the runes, was covered in soft clean bandages.

"I needed something to do." Wanda explained, almost shyly, fiddling with a stray lock of hair.

"Oh. Thanks."

The twin shrugged. "It's nothing. You saved Pietro." She said, as if that explained her behaviour entirely. And maybe it did, honestly, because in her books now, this witch had saved the most important thing in her life.

Ash then swung her legs- someone had taken off her boots too, Wanda, probably, bless her soul- and took a deep breath. Then she stood up.

Huh. It wasn't _that_ bad, she was just a tad shaky. Maybe she had miscalculated the toll her little stunt had taken on her body? Either that or she was getting better at it.

And she definitely wasn't.

With small steps- and under Wanda's watchful gaze- she made her way until she was sitting on the edge of Pietro's bed, observing the rise and fall of his chest, methodically.

"I'm gonna check my work, alright?" She warned the other girl. Wanda nodded, either accepting it of giving her permission.

She then watched as Ash splayed her hand over his chest, right over his heart, and then closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and let it go in a rush, with just the hint of a word slithering past her lips, a serpent made of air and sounds.

And then Wanda felt it.

Three times, the air... pulsed. It hummed, briefly, like it was suddenly charged with electricity. And then it stopped. And she watched as her brother sighed in his sleep and relaxed further into sleep, just the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips.

She briefly wondered if this was a regular reaction towards magic. And then she voiced her thoughts.

"He likes it, no?" She smiled; it had been a long time since her brother's face had looked so calm, so... innocent. Without worries.

"Apparently. Some react better than others." She shrugged. "It's nothing strange."

She took her hand of him and brushed it distractedly over her stained dress.

"So, Wanda. Mind telling me where are we?"

The other girl realised that so far, this witch... _Ash,_ had no idea where she was standing, and that she hadn't care to ask before that point. If it had been her, she would have been more cautious, more worried of the possibility of danger.

"This is the Avengers Tower, city of New York."

Ash whistled between her teeth. "Been a while since I've been in NYC. Or the States, actually."

"There are some good museums you should go to, kid."

Both girls turned to see the new voice, only to find the archer of the team, without his uniform, leaning against the door frame. Ash's eyes went directly to the steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He noticed it.

Walking towards them, he offered his mug to the girl, and she took it more than gratefully.

"I think." She stated between gulps. "That you are the best person I've met."

He crossed his arms, and shared a look with Wanda.

"Because I gave you my coffee?"

"And because you drink it as black as my cursed soul."

He snorted at this. Clint eyed the girl, the tiny girl with tangled waves of white hair and a white girly dress, the girl whose feet barely reached the floor, only with her toes, sitting as she was.

And who was covered in dried blood.

She looked like some sort of distorted, nightmarish fairy, he concluded.

She finished her coffee and placed the mug on the nightstand next to Pietro's bed, before standing up and stretching her arms over her head.

"Well, my job here is done, so I should probably go." She then looked down at her dress. "Although I should probably shower and get changed first, you don't think Mr. Stark will mind, do you?" She didn't wait for Clint to reply. "Not a lot of people are comfortable with this amount of blood and-"

She stopped suddenly, as a drop of blood escaped her nose. And then two, and three, and yes, her nose was bleeding quite a lot.

She paled.

"Oh." She muttered. Rolling her eyes half-heartedly. "Not _again_."

And she passed out.

Fortunately, Clint's reflexes were fast and he caught her before she could crack her head against the floor. She was pale, and completely limp, blood still gushing out from her nose.

"Seriously?" He asked, to no one in particular. " _Seriously?"_ He repeated, looking at Wanda.

The girl shrugged innocently, her eyes big and curious.

Better to find some cloth to stop that bleeding, she thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Thanks for the follows favs and reviews, I'm always happy to know that you're enjoying this! If you have anything to say, just drop a few lines, I like reading your opinions.**

 **Also for the first time in like forever I have a clear outline for a story so this is probably going to update at a better pace than my other stories. So yay.**

 **Ms. Out.**

* * *

 **Chapter III**

 **Ghost stories.**

 **(Ash is tired of fainting and awkward with people and needs a vacation.)**

* * *

The next time she wakes up is to the smell of food. She blinks a few times, her eyes bleary, and notices this ceiling is different than the last one. Sitting up on the bed, she realises she's in a bedroom now, alone, and that she's quite hungry.

And thirsty.

She follows her nose to the nightstand next to her, and there, in all its greasy glory, stands a nondescript paper bag. She takes it into her lap and fishes the cheeseburger inside, devouring it in wolfish bites.

When was the last time she had eaten anything, anyways?

Inside the bag there's also a soda she gratefully slurps, and a star-shaped post it she finds quite cute. No napkins though, so, after briefly considering the bed sheets and coming to the conclusion that the fabric is probably Egyptian cotton and therefore too expensive to be marred, she decides to wipe her fingers on her already ruined dress.

She takes out the post-it (it's a lovely shade of blue) and reads the words scribbled in there- and only slightly smudged:

 _I always need greasy food after passing out for long periods of time._

 _There are clothes for you in the bathroom, feel free to take a shower!_

 _(You need one. You're covered in blood and grime. Please take a shower.)_

 _-Tony_

She raises a single eyebrow at the note. Insult towards her hygiene notwithstanding, Tony Stark proved to be a gracious host so far, at least for not having actually met him. Food and a king sized bed?

(And clothes and the possibility of shower. And a Doctor at hand.)

In an odd display of sentimentality, she doesn't make a ball out of the post-it and throws it in the garbage; instead, she places it neatly on the nightstand.

It's nothing, she assures herself, it's just that it's a very nice colour. She's a sucker for blue.

Having dealt with that, she explores the room: it's what looks like a standard guest room in the Avengers Tower, with all the commodities affordable by Stark money, but deprived of any personal belongings. There's a flat screen on a wall and a loveseat in front of it (although from this angle, the bed offers a good enough view of it too). There's no bookcase, shelves or desk.

On the right side of the room there are two doors, the first one proves to be a walk-in closet, and empty one, but still pretty huge, complete with pretty tall mirrors inside and all. The second one- and here she forgets to breath for a second- opens to reveal a beautiful bathroom, complete with both shower _and_ a huge tub that's calling to her in the most seducing of ways.

Maybe she's just really dirty and she only just notices it.

Making a note of the bundle of clothes laying on a chair by the counter, she first decides to take a quick shower to get rid of most of the dried blood and wash her- _ew_ \- hair. Then she wraps herself in a towel and starts filling the tub with hot water, throwing some of the scented bottles of soap under the hot- _hot_ \- spray of water.

Then she lets the towel fall and sinks with a happy sigh into her bubble bath.

 _These_ , she thinks, these are the things that bring real happiness. The things worth living for.

Just to be sure, she scrubs herself vigorously once again until her skin is red, and it's only then that she remembers her right arm is bandaged.

Well, _was_ bandaged, given the bandage is now all wet and falling apart.

(What? She had been distracted!)

She finishes taking it off and inspects her arm. The spidery runes are still an angry red against her pale complexion, the skin around them pink and swollen.

It itches.

And it bleeds too, she realises, if she pokes a bit around it.

She sighs.

 _Stupid steel._

She knows it won't heal for a while. It will itch and hurt too. That's the price she pays for getting her blood in contact with steel, but it's not that terrible. As long as she keeps it clean and doesn't risk an infection, she's safe. It'll bother her, obviously, but she's safe.

She's not happy about the prospect of the scars though.

In the end, she spends the better part of an hour soaking in the tub, stretching in the warmth and trying not to think of anything too mentally taxing for a long while.

The fact that she lost her knife, her cell phone, and the rest of her stuff in Sokovia vaguely irks her, but the only number she needs for emergencies is permanently branded on her memory anyways. It's a matter of calling and asking for a replacement.

Pity. It had been such a pretty knife.

Once her skin is all prune-like she steps out of the tub and wraps herself on the towel- so soft- once again, and rummages through the cabinet, lucky enough to find antiseptic ointment and clean bandages.

Today was looking good, honestly, and if she could finish the day without fainting or bleeding, she would consider it one of the best days in what, a month?

If only.

Most of the clothes were too big on her and the only feminine ones where either black- she wrinkled her nose at this- or dark red, and she didn't need the constant reminder of blood, as comfortable as she was with it, every time she looked at her clothes.

In the end, she put on some flannel shirt that was huge on her, none of the pants fit, but that was alright since the shirt practically reached her knees.

With a snort, she realised there was a pair of matching briefs and socks- both had little black cats on them.

If this was Tony Stark's sense of humour, he was going to have to do _a lot_ better to impress her.

Her boots where there too, except that she almost didn't recognise them without the dirt and blood splotches. Briefly, she offered her gratitude to whoever had taken the time to clean them up.

Her hair was still wet and hanging freely, but she didn't particularly mind when she stepped outside the room, closing the door behind her.

(The disembodied voice that greeted her, calling itself FRIDAY, did, however, surprise her.)

* * *

"We literally just saved the world two days ago. Can't this wait?"

In a way or another, all of them agreed with Tony's words, but nobody else voiced it. However much they needed to rest, there were still bad things happening around, HYDRA wasn't completely vanquished yet either, and if they slept too long, things were going to start to go south soon.

Fury simply levelled Tony with a look.

"I mean, I promised Pepper a date night tomorrow! And I still need to finish the repairs of the Tower after what Ultron did!"

Steve sighed. Yes, yes, they were all very tired but if Fury had called a meeting, then it was probably important. Better to play nice and listen. He stole a glance at Natasha; the assassin had been looking all shades of miserable lately. She still was on top of her game, obviously, but it was clear that Bruce's disappearing act had hit her. Hard.

Thor for his part had gone back to Asgard for some business or another- but that's what being the ruler of such place demanded, Steve supposed. He promised he'd be back in a month's time or so; Tony was intent on throwing a _'sorry one of my creations almost destroyed the world but hey we're still good'_ party, and the so called 'god' had promise to attend with Jane this time.

Clint had decided to stick around until the end of the week instead of going straight to the farm; he said it was to help with any sort of damage control after Ultron, but it was an unspoken truth that the archer wanted to made sure that that Maximoff kid was honest to God alright after his little hero stunt back in Sokovia.

Speaking of which, Wanda had voiced earlier that day that they accepted the offer to be a part of the team, and Steve was going to have to think of ways to beat them into S.H.I.E.L.D top shape, their powers included, once they were settled and they could both train.

He was pretty certain that as long as one of them was bedridden, the other twin wasn't going to be able to focus.

And then... there was the matter with that girl... but she could wait until she woke up and didn't pass out in a bleeding mess, that is.

But first, whatever Fury wanted to say- once Tony finished complaining, of course.

"Avengers, another HYDRA facility has appeared in our radar." Fury paced the meeting room, dropping files on the oval table for them to flip through. "This one is located in Guatemala, so prepare your anti-frizz products, team; you're going to the rainforest."

Steve flipped through the files. This didn't make any sense, no human experiments, no strange alien weapons risking large groups of people's security... Surely a team of regular agents could take them out without much trouble?

"I see your frown Rogers, and here's the catch." Fury then produced a stack of photographs that he showed the team. "Our intel shows they have this box in their power."

The pictures showed a stone box, not bigger than the size of a shoebox, with gold decorations and strange symbols.

"What's inside it?" Steve asked.

"That's the problem. We don't know." Fury sighed. "All we know is that it has the potential to be really dangerous and that it has to be removed from HYDRA'S hands. So, you go in, take them down, get the box and bring them to S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities so that we can learn what's inside-"

"Yeah, I mean, you _could_ do that, but that'd be stupid and people would die, so..."

All five turned to the voice of the newcomer, and found the short girl leaning against the doorframe, an unimpressed eyebrow raised in defiance.

" _Excuse me?"_ Fury spat. "And who are you?" He turned to the team. "Who is _she?"_

"She's the girl who saved Maximoff's life." Steve replied, though leaving out the part of _how_ she saved his life. "And she... should not be here." He then turned to Tony. "Isn't this floor secured?"

Tony shrugged. "I'm still finishing the repairs, I had to turn off the extra security in a couple of floors so that FRIDAY can update properly." He turned to the girl, a cocky grin in his lips. "Ashley, right?" Or something. That's what Wanda had said.

" _Aisling_." She corrected, a dull look in her eyes, almost as if she was bored. "But Ash is fine."

"Sure. Enjoyed your breakfast?"

"Yes, that was thoughtful of you Mr. Stark." So perfectly polite now.

"Tony is fine." He waved a hand in dismissal. "And I'm nothing but a generous host."

This brought a lopsided half-smile out of the girl.

"Stark! You want some coffee and biscuits for your tea party?" Fury scolded, and then at the girl: "Okay _Aisling_ , this is a private meeting, not for civilians, so turn around and start walking before I send agent Romanoff to escort you."

She shrugged, oblivious to the small smirk Natasha had in her lips now.

"Sure, I mean, if you want people to _die_...Anyways, I can tell when I'm _persona non grata_ , thanks again for the food and clothes Mr. Stark."

One step. Two steps. The people still in the room exchanged looks. Three steps. Four-

"Wait."

She turned around, all big eyes and innocent confusion.

Except her eyes were much too cold for that to pass as a real emotion.

Fury sighed and gestured forward. "What do you mean with people dying? Do you know anything about this box?"

She walked inside the room again, all confidence, and pretty much demanded to see the pictures. She scanned them with her eyes for a minute, emotionless. Then she raised them for all to see.

"That big symbol, the circle with the _things_ in the middle? Yeah, that's pretty much ancient Roahn for _'warning, do not open under any circumstances'._ Like, you can exchange that for a little skull and it'd be pretty much the same."

"Ancient what?" Tony asked.

" _Ro_ -ahn." She repeated. "It's a dead language, you don't know?" She furrowed her brows. "Anything that's important is written in Roahn."

"Yeah, no, sorry, no speaking ancient tongues over here."

She shrugged, and kept on explaining. "That one next to the circle, and the one at the other side? Those mean 'dragon' and 'infinite'. The rest are pretty much warnings against the greed of men and the whole classic shebang. So my guess is that it's a trick box designed to bath in fire whoever opens and or breaks it. And like, a fire that's super hard to put out, if that's even possible."

"And you know all this because...?" Fury questioned her.

She blinked. "I'm a linguist. Ancient dead tongues and symbology is what I _do_. Google me, I'm legit." She then studied the pictures again. "And in my experience, trap boxes like this are usually super unstable and have something really dangerous inside."

"A weapon?" Steve inquired.

She shrugged. "Or the evils of the world, who knows? It's hard to tell with Roahn." She returned the photographs to Fury. "In any case: you move it too much, you cause a great fire, you try to open it or pick it apart, you cause a great fire, and what's inside it's probably not worth it. Just bury it or tie a rock to it and let it sink forgotten to the bottom of the ocean. That's usually the way to go with ancient artefacts of doubtful origins."

Fury looked from the girl to the pictures and back. He didn't like her attitude, and she could very well be lying, but if she wasn't...

"I'll look into it."

She smiled wide, a pleasant smile that didn't reach her eyes.

* * *

It was a bit funny, once she thought about it. How she hadn't even exchange a single word with the person responsible for her being here. When he had been awake, she had been asleep, and vice versa. She shrugged it off, it wasn't that big of a deal, he was probably terrible once one got to know him (like all people; people sucked).

Once she had been given the clearance to go by Dr. Cho, she had insisted on leaving first thing in the morning. The Avengers hadn't been particularly happy about it, but they had no reason to force her to stay, and there were bigger things on their minds anyways.

So, she told them thanks and goodnight and she'd leave in the morning. The only regret she'd have was saying goodbye to Wanda; they had talked a bit more after she woke up on the medical bay that day, and the girl seemed... _alright_.

Which was much better than what she could say about a lot of people.

And to avoid the awkwardness of a possible hug and another round of thanking her for saving her brother, Ash decided to leave that night after everyone was asleep.

So, at two in the morning, she had tiptoed out of her guest room and found her way through the empty kitchen to the elevator and-

And she stopped when she realised the kitchen wasn't so empty after all.

Damn. So close.

He was sitting by the counter, clad in a loose shirt and boxers and stuffing his mouth with leftovers, and he stared at her, eyes wide and so ridiculously blue she could puke.

Oh, way. She had puked already. Mostly blood.

And it had been his fault.

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed an eternity, both having been obviously caught in activities the other residents wouldn't approve.

He broke the silence first.

"You are-"

"You owe me a dress." She interrupted, her eyes narrowed.

He blinked and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes, way to go, Ash, way to go. "Nothing. You shouldn't be up, what are you doing?"

"I was hungry." He offered. "I run fast. I think fast. I heal fast. When I eat..." He trailed off.

"Fast metabolism?" She guessed, crossing her arms.

He nodded, and took another bite of his whatever-sandwich.

She studied him in silence for a while, from his posture, to the way he ate, until her eyes rested on his torso and what she knew that was under layers of clothing and bandages. She sighed. Then she walked up to him and rested her elbows on the counter, in front of where he was sitting.

"If you mess up my work because you got eager to get out of bed I'm seriously going to be angry." She chastised. "Go back to bed."

He stopped eating and left his sandwich on his plate, before running a hand through his hair and looking directly into her eyes, serious now.

Oh, _no_.

"You saved my life." He stared at her and it was just _too_ blue for her.

(The same shade of the post-it hidden in the pocket of a coat she had not-quite borrowed.)

"Can we not do this?" She muttered, but either he didn't hear her (not very plausible) or he ignored her (most likely. Ass.)

"Wanda says your name is Ash?" He waited for her to nod before continuing. "Then... Thank you, Ash."

She ran a hand over her tired eyes. These people and their wanting to see her as something better than what she was.

"Look, it wasn't personal." And he tilted his head in curiosity at that. "You saved me from that train, remember? I just... I don't know, I returned the favour. We're even now."

Except for the dress, but that could wait.

He didn't accept it, however, and continued:

"Still, you saved me. I'm in pain, and then darkness, and I think 'maybe I'm dead now', but then I'm breathing and I'm alive and Wanda says 'that girl with the pretty hair, she saved you' she says, 'her name is Ash, she can do magic'." He takes a deep breath here. "And all I can think is 'she looks so tiny. So fragile'."

She sits then, opposite of him, and she holds her head in her hands and takes a shaky breath because the way he's talking about her is making her uncomfortable, it's short of making her cry. He's talking about her as if she was the best thing in the world and she's _not_ , but he doesn't know her and right now? Right now she doesn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.

So instead, she says:

"Mind if I check my work?"

And this makes him more alert, but he doesn't complain when she stands and walks closer to him, when she puts her small hand on his chest and closes her eyes and a strange word runs past her lips.

And then.

Three times the air pulses; and with those pulses he feels... good. It's fresh, like mint, and it clears his head on a way that makes him feel like floating, at ease, relaxed. When she takes her hand away, he can't help himself, he lightly catches her wrist, trying to get the feeling to last longer, just a bit, but she flinches at his touch and she lets her go instantly.

"You... surprised me." She offers weakly.

He doesn't ask any questions.

It's hard to be like this, she realises. When there's blood and bullets and pain she's at ease, that, she knows like the palm of her hand; the bite of a blade, the metallic scent, the oozing wounds.

That's her home. And that's her focus.

She can touch like that, because that's not a person, that's just a body and the different parts that make it one.

But like this...

Like this, alone and in the darkness of the kitchen he's suddenly a person and very real and very warm. He talks and he thinks and he feels and there's not blood anywhere, so she doesn't know what to do, how to react.

She's not _that_ used to physical contact.

He seems like a _very_ physical guy.

Instead of dwelling on it, she makes idle conversation, she passes the time until he finishes eating and then she sends him off to bed, with the warning that if he messes up his wounds and bleeds over the floor she's not going to patch him up this time.

(She almost believes it herself.)

She leaves then, and doesn't say goodbye. After all, she has a flight to catch and there's no room for blue eyes and warm hands in her busy mind.

She doesn't _want_ there to be room for that.

* * *

"She's almost a ghost."

Clint looked from Tony to Natasha and then to the manila folder on the coffee table.

"What?" He asked.

"That girl. The little witch." Tony elaborated. "She's almost a ghost. No credit card receipts, no hospital bills, we can't even find a birth certificate!" He threw his hands in the air in frustration.

Natasha sat on the couch next to Clint and stole some chips from the bowl on his lap.

"I've tried some of my other sources but there's not much either. A few recognised her face, but just from 'being around'. Not very social, apparently." The assassin says.

"And after I used face recognition software, I only could find two things on her. Go ahead and look." He gestured towards the manila folder.

Clint gave his bowl to Natasha and took the folder in his hands, taking out what appeared to be two different articles. The first one was some sort of newsletter from Oxford university website from a year ago, a little article congratulating the newly graduated and with short summaries of achievements of the year. He skimmed through it, until he reached a picture of a woman in her fifties- a professor, no doubt- and the white-haired girl they had met. She looked almost exactly the same, maybe her hair a little shorter, and there was a huge smile on her face, while she was holding what appeared to be some sort of ancient tablet with scribbles on it.

The description of the picture read _'Professor McIntyre and Aisling D. on their discovery of lost Japanese funerary rituals, dept. of Languages'_. He speed-read the short story below; apparently, some son of a powerful Japanese politician came across the tablet on an antiques shop in Germany, but it was written in some sort of dead language he couldn't read, so he sent it to them for translation.

Clint whistled between his teeth. "So she _is_ a Linguist. Didn't sound British to me though."

Natasha shrugged. "She may have trained the accent out of her if she wanted to hide where she's from. I did it."

The other article was more of a social nature, it was a short piece filled with pictures, like something you'd find on a trendy magazine or something. It was about some rich man's party, and it had nothing related to her, until he came to a photography on the last page.

She looked younger in here, and her hair was shorter, almost an inch above her shoulders. She had a glass of champagne in her hand and was wearing what seemed to be a ridiculously expensive silver dress. In the picture, she was framed by two men in equally expensive suits, the one to her right was a young guy whose fiery red long hair seemed more than slightly out of place in the party- seriously, he looked like an elf- and the other was an older man, perhaps in his early forties. He was standing stock still, one of his hands behind his back, his suit as dark as his own skin, and eyes a startling amber colour.

There was something about that man that Clint didn't like.

The three of them were looking straight at the camera, no physical contact between each other, but they all had the exact same perfectly pleasant smile on their lips.

A tad too pleasant for his liking.

There wasn't any description on the picture, but the article was dated from four years ago.

"We have any info on them?" Clint asked the others.

"Absolutely nothing on the redhead." Tony replied. "Not a single mention of a name or anything."

"The other guy though-" Natasha cut in. "He's some rich lawyer from a London firm. Malcolm Delacroix, model citizen, single, no kids, not even a speeding ticket."

Clint nodded. "There's something I don't like about him..." He muttered


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, in case anyone wants to know, I always write Ash while listening to Florence + the Machine or Marina and the Diamonds (Goddesses) because their music makes me think of Aisling.**

 **I don't think anyone wanted to know that.**

 **As usual, thanks so much for all the follows and favourites, and if you drop a line telling me what you think of this story, you get a very important place in my little heart.**

 **Oh, btw, with this chapter we finish what I like to call the introduction cycle. Everything after this is character development.**

* * *

 **Chapter IV**

 **Lawyered.**

 **(Because dragging a drunken Tony Stark around Rio is not her definition of relaxing)**

* * *

Four months go by.

She's feeling quite good, to be honest, she spent Christmas and New Year in Rio, and giving into the Brazilian celebration spirit, she's decided to stay over for Carnival too. It had been a while since she had relaxed so much, and she was planning to enjoy it as much as she could.

So right now, she's laying down on a towel set over warm sand, feeling pretty in her new bikini, sipping slowly her chilled caipirinha and reading a battered up copy of the Necronomicon, and yeah, she's feeling quite good. This is her own personal Heaven, despite the massive amount of people in the city at the time. Most were- _usually_ \- friendly anyways, and if she avoided much eye contact or prolonged conversation past pleasantries, she discovered she was- _mostly_ \- left alone.

Perhaps people aren't so terrible at this particular time of the year.

Or, perhaps, her daily summer-y alcoholic drinks are clouding her judgement.

The second one, probably.

"You know, oversized straw hats, dark blue bikini thongs and cocktails at the beach doesn't seem very _witchy_ to me."

"My cauldron and pointy hat are at the cleaners at the moment." She deadpans. "Sorry to disappoint."

She hears his snort and only turns her head to look at him when he's settled next to her on his own towel. He's wearing expensive sunglasses, an obnoxious red and gold floral bathing suit- she raises an eyebrow at this- and he's leisurely sipping at the Smirnoff Ice on his hand.

"You are one _very_ hard to find lady, you know that?" He comments, amusedly.

The corner of her lip twitches at this, barely the hint of a movement, before she shrugs- awkwardly as it is from her position- and brushes it off with a simple:

"I know a guy."

He lowers his sunglasses and looks at her with an expression between curious and annoyed.

" _A guy_ that can make it virtually impossible for me to find any info on you?"

She shrugs again.

"I like my privacy."

"I mean, you _do_ know that I'm sort of a tech genius, right? I'm supposed to be amazing at this stuff?"

She shrugs yet _again_.

"Now, mind telling me why are you here Mr. Stark?" She turns the page on her book.

"What, can't this be just a happy coincidence? Can't I just be enjoying Brazilian summer and bump into my favourite fainting girl?" And then he eyes her book, "What's that, some YA John Green novel thing?"

She sighs and rubs at the bridge her nose with her thumb and forefinger before closing the book and passing it to him. So much for peace and relaxation.

"Really?" His eyebrows shot up. "I thought this was made up stuff? This makes you twelve percent more witchy I guess."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and takes the book back into her hand before he can thumb through it. He looks crestfallen.

"Well it's not made up, and don't pout at me; I don't want you accidentally summoning a demon or whatnot." She huffs. "Now, why are you here Mr. Stark?"

He takes a long swig of his drink before answering.

"It's Tony." He says first, and then: "Say, what if I have a job offer for you?"

"What kind of job and how much are you paying?" She asks without missing a beat, slowly sipping what's left of her cocktail.

"Well..." Tony drags the word. "Technically, it's not _me_ that's offering you the job, it's S.H.I.E.L.D."

"And _you're_ the one here because...?"

He fiddles with the label on his bottle, pursing his lips before answering.

"Because Fury- the scary guy who bosses people around- said he hadn't really liked your attitude. And I actually _do_ enjoy Rio at this time of the year so..." He raises his bottle in a fake toast and drowns the last of it.

Ash narrows her eyes at him.

"Is S.H.I.E.L.D. in need of a witch, ?"

Because she's done her homework on them and she isn't very eager to become part of what the organisation stands for. She likes her secrets to herself and her freedom to move around however she wants to, not someone tracing her steps and bossing her around.

"No, no. We, uh, well, at least _I_ left the brooms and cats part out when talking to Fury. I don't know about the others though." He purses his lips in thought. "But no, anyways, they want a linguist, or like, someone who reads ancient texts and stuff."

She plays with a stray strand of hair that had escaped her bun. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. would probably mean a lot of money... if she played this right.

"Why me?" She suddenly asks. "Why spend whatever long it took you to track me down-"

"A month, actually. It was _a month_."

"Why spend a month tracking me when there are others equally qualified for the job?"

He smiles at her.

"Actually, I called a couple of your old teachers and they said you were top of your class; of several classes. Besides, I doubt we can find someone with your other sets of kills too. That ought to come in handy in case someone gets shot full of lead again, right?"

She shoots him a blank look.

"Okay, fine, there was also... an _accident_. We retrieved the box- really carefully- and took it down to S.H.I.E.L.D. for safe keeping" She narrows her eyes at this. "And- there was this new science guy I guess, and he pretty much said that everyone was being ridiculous and that it was upon our duty to neutralize whatever weapon was inside and... well, long story short, it took five days to completely put out the fire." He pauses. "And three people died."

He wasn't ready for her to suddenly slam her book on the sand and stand up, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

"See?" She gestures wildly. " _This_ is exactly why I don't like people!" She starts to pace, her expression set into one of firm irritation. "You go and tell them exactly what _not_ to do, and they go and do it! And when I say _not_ to do something, it's because people will die! Which, granted, yeah, it's sort of what people _do_ , but still!"

He chuckles at her, and hides it with a poorly faked cough.

"Yeah, so, in conclusion, you were right and Fury wants you, because apparently, he remembered there are more things stashed somewhere in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s basement written in ancient tongues, sooooo..." He drags the word, a hopeful expression in his face.

She crosses her arms and stares him down.

"No."

"No?"

"No, I won't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. like _that_. I don't want them for own me or whatever I can do, I... have other businesses, clients, stuff that I'd rather have them far away of."

"Illegal witchstuff?" He smirks at her.

"Illegal witchstuff." She concedes "So no."

He run a hand through his hair and sighs. Well, it had been long shot anyways. Not that Fury was going to be happy about it, but-

" _However_ ," She continues. "I _could_ become a consultant, for the right payment, if I'm allowed to work with other..."

"Customers?"

"Sure, let's call them that. You think Fury would be up for that?"

Tony snorts "Up for that? He said, and I'm quoting here, ' _Stark, I don't care if you have to give her your favourite helicopter, I need that girl in here.'_ So yeah, he'll probably be fine with it. I'll give him a call later."

She nods.

"So." He claps his hands together. "I was supposed to actually find you, convince you, and come back, but the sun's too nice for that. Want me to get you another drink? We can wait until sunset and then go back to New York on my jet, no biggie."

"Sure." She gives him her glass while he disappears to find one of the bars that settled on the beach.

Maybe, she thinks, he isn't _that_ bad. At least he was letting her finish her reading and getting her a drink. She could still relax on her last day of Carnival in the beach.

* * *

Four months went by.

He and his sister had been wary at first, it wasn't easy for them to trust other people that weren't, well, each other. Since their parents died, it had been that way.

But this, now? This was a nice change, he supposed.

Not being pressured by the constant worry of getting enough money- usually by teaming up with some gangs to run some illegal errands for them- to be sure that Wanda had a roof over her head and enough food was definitely _nice._

And even if it had taken more time for him than for her to warm up to the rest of the team and some S.H.I.E.L.D. agents- she was the emotional and emphatic one, she always had been; he was more of a physical guy, anyways- he felt he was genuinely getting there, now.

He was even starting to have conversations with Stark that didn't involve him glaring at the millionaire for the whole length of it.

So yeah, he was getting there, slowly, but he now felt part of the team. With all of the ridiculously hard training sessions Steve had planned for them and all.

He winced at the thought, his poor, poor sore muscles. Waking up at six to start training should be a sin. Everyone had said he'd get used to the routine eventually, but it hadn't happened so far, and he doubted he would get use to it in the near future.

Life was good, and he actually felt they were _doing_ good for the world too.

He only had one problem.

The scars.

He ran a hand absent-mindedly over his bare torso. He hated the scars. He had told Wanda, once the bandages had come off, and she almost cried and hugged him and told him he was being silly, he was _obviously_ still as handsome as before.

He still couldn't help but frown every time he looked at them in the mirror.

And then, naturally, he thought about the girl.

At first, she was constantly in his thoughts, he wondered where she had left and why in the middle of the night- Wanda had been slightly upset by her secret departure-; he briefly asked the universe, from time to time, to treat her well after what she had done for him.

Then weeks started to pass, and he thought about her less. Just sometimes, when he looked at his scars, he thought of a sweet face and eyes ice of ice and steel.

...At least, in his waking hours.

He had nightmares, both him and Wanda had them, and he was pretty sure that after all the crap the team had been through, they all had them occasionally.

His nightmares had always been predictable. Reliving the experiments. Watching Wanda die. Reliving the two days trapped under their former house. After Sokovia, however, some new scenarios were added: the hot pain of the bullets, feeling himself die, failing to defeat Ultron. Sometimes now, he even watched Barton and that kid die on his nightmares.

Some other times... they weren't nightmares exactly, but they weren't pleasant dreams either. He closed his eyes and he would see her, eyes intense and determined and so, so cold; small pale hands covered in blood- _his_ blood- pressing firmly against his chest, sometimes, he even heard the sound of her vomiting blood- _her_ blood.

He didn't _quite_ remember the whole ordeal, but he suspected that at least, at some level, he had been aware of everything, and that was his mind's way of manifesting it.

Sometimes he even dreamed of words in strange tongues and the mint-fresh feeling of magic.

Wrapped as he was in his thoughts- and with reheated leftover pizza getting cold again on his plate- he doesn't hear the soft _ding_ of the elevator until the door of the kitchen gets slammed open followed by a not very subtle ' _Shhhh people are sleeping!'._

He recognised that voice before they came in.

Stark.

Pietro watched as the millionaire entered the room, swaying slightly, followed by a familiar head of white waves. He frowned, confused.

"Mr. Stark, please go to bed." She was rubbing her nose in frustration. "You're drunk."

"Am not!" Tony whined, supporting his weight on the nearest wall. "I _was_ drunk a few hours ago, I'm tipsy now!"

She threw her hands in the air with a vague air of 'why me', and her eyes tightly shut. She looked like she was having a migraine.

"Hey!" Tony went to wrap an arm around her shoulders, but she dodged it. " _You_ were the one that wanted to relax in Rio!"

" _Relax_." She spat the word as if it left bad taste on her tongue. "Not go to a bar and drinking until you end up singing on top of a table."

"It's Carnival and people liked it!" He defended himself.

Pietro couldn't manage to hide the snort that escaped him, and both of them turned to stare at him at the same time.

Well.

She was more like staring at the scars on his torso.

"No, no." He put his hands up in mock surrender. "Keep talking, yes? I'm enjoying."

Tony's face instantly broke into a grin.

"Speedy!" He cheerfully greeted. "Stealing leftovers again?"

Pietro shrugged. He couldn't help it if he woke up hungry in the middle of the night- or way too early morning- sometimes. He needed either big meals or normal meals but often for his body to function properly.

Tony walked- _swayed_ \- up to him and stole a slice of pizza from his plate, giving a big bite before talking again- with his mouth full.

"I'm going to bed before Pepper gets angry. Show the little miss her new bedroom- there's an empty one near yours right? Down the corridor?" Pietro nodded. "Good. Night-night kids!"

And with that, he left, still swaying and humming some happy song or another under his breath.

When he was out of sight, the two left in the room looked at each other in silence.

Awkward.

He cleared his throat. "Hello again." He offered.

"Yes, hi." She shifted her weight, a bit uncomfortable, her eyes still on his scars. "How...?" She vaguely gestured at his torso, unsure of how to end the sentence.

He shrugged with one shoulder.

"Better." He answered. "Good as new, but for the scars." He self-consciously brushed his fingers against a particular one, under his ribs. Stealing a glance at her face, he realised she looked... worried? No, it was some sort of clinical concern, the same he'd seen on Dr. Cho's face when she was patching any of them up. Realising what she wanted but wasn't willing to ask, he decided to cross that bridge with only a slight smile. "You wish to check?"

She only nodded briefly before crossing the distance in long- as long as her short legs allowed her anyways- strides and kneeling on the floor next to the sofa he was sitting on before placing her left hand on his chest.

The pulse of magic came again, and with it the same feeling of freshness and calmness that had washed over him the first time. He closed his eyes at the sensation.

"You _do_ like it." She mused, her thin fingers poking and probing at the scars.

He furrowed his brow in confusion. She spoke as if it was a strange thing, and it must have shown on his face, because then she explained:

"Some people take to it better than others." She shrugged, still on the floor. "To magic in general I mean, or whatever energy is released in it. To _my_ magic?" She grimaced. "Not so much."

"It feels really nice."

That made her stop and look at him curiously in the eye. He was slightly smiling at her, friendly and open and just a bit inquisitive and that made her snatch her hand away from him, almost as if it burnt her.

'Really nice' wasn't a good way to describe her magic. Sure, it wasn't as if everyone felt the overwhelming need to scream and throw up after she used it on them- that had only happened once. Okay, _fine_ , twice.

(Three times, but who's counting?)

Still... Most people either didn't feel anything, or, in the best case scenario, slight pinpricks on their fingers that tickled at best.

Yet he had seemed... relaxed by it.

How strange.

She stood up and cleaned imaginary dust from her flimsy sundress with her hands, making a mental note to buy winter clothing- she had to practically drag Tony back to his jet, and her suitcase only carried summer clothing and the sort.

Hell, she was still wearing her dark blue bikini underneath her white sundress.

She shook herself out of her inner musings, only to realise she had been quiet for the last minute or so while he had been staring at her.

"What are you doing here?" He simply blurted out. "Not wanting to be rude." He explained quickly.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"You don't know? Apparently, they offered me a job in here."

"What?" He blinked. No, he had had no idea- neither had his sister, or she would have told him, he was sure.

"Well, not _here_ , but apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. needs of my services as a linguist." She shrugged.

He nodded. Things made sense now, he supposed, after the fire back at the headquarters and how hard it had been to put off, they had all heard Fury mutter- with a high level of annoyance, mind you- something along the lines of _'fuck, that girl was right about the damn thing'_ more than once.

He had asked around and the Falcon-whose right eyebrow was singed - had ultimately told him that apparently some girl who read ancient tongues had warned them about not to tinker with the box and some idiot in the labs didn't listen.

So that meant that girl was her.

"So you accepted, yes?" Why would she be here otherwise?

She held a hand up in front of her.

"Not yet. I accepted to look at a contract and have a meeting with Fury. I want to know what I'm getting into before saying yes to anything."

He snorted at this. If only his sister and him had had that mentality before volunteering for the experiments- then again, if that hadn't happened they probably wouldn't have met the Avengers and ended up becoming part of the team.

He finally stood up from the couch and gestured towards the hallway, he supposed she must have been tired.

"I'll show you your room then, yes?" He offered.

"Oh, right. Yes, thanks." She was already thinking of the long bubble bath she was going to take.

Actually, that thought was what had kept her from putting a hex on a drunken Tony Stark for most of the flight to the tower. _The bathtub, the bathtub_ , she had repeated constantly to herself like her personal mantra.

* * *

"Where is she?"

Tony tore his eyes from the screen and looked at Steve.

"What?"

Steve sighed, running a tired hand through his hair. This was proving to be a difficult day already.

"I'm looking for Aisling, have you seen her?"

Tony blinked slowly. He had woken up with a slight hangover- _slight_ was the keyword- and after downing nearly a gallon of water and getting a well-deserved shower- just _how_ did that much sand got in there?- he had trapped himself inside his lab all day, only stopping his work to grab some food- he still ate it on the lab.

"Nope." He popped the word. "Sorry old man."

Steve sighed again.

"Fury's gonna arrive in half an hour and he won't be happy if she's not here."

Tony shrugged. "Have you asked Dash and Violet?"

" _Who_?"

"The twins."

Steve blinked slowly. "No, not yet. You think they might know?"

"Maybe?" He stretched his arms over his head. "Who knows, maybe the kids stick together?"

"Right." Steve nodded. "I'll go and... do that."

* * *

An hour later, there was still no sign of the girl. They were all together in the conference room of the Tower, while Nick Fury paced back and forth, frowning.

"You think she changed her mind?" Clint asked no one in particular.

Tony shrugged. "Maybe. Last time she sort of bailed on us too."

Fury rubbed his tired eyes. He had literally spent his whole night writing a decent contract for the girl, and now she was a no-show? And he hated to admit it, but they needed her. Nobody else was able to translate what she did, and if they ran into other things like that damned trick box? Well.

They really needed a linguist, apparently, and she was one of the best in her field.

"Ten more minutes." He had reached his limit. "Ten more minutes and if she doesn't show up-"

"You'll spend a month tracking me down again, Director Fury?"

He shut his eyes tightly. This girl, he swore, this girl was _almost_ as bad as Stark. He turned around to face her, and found her once again lying her weight against the doorframe, except that this time she wasn't wearing borrowed clothes and her hair slightly tangled- she looked like a different person now; with a white blouse, grey skirt, white pumps and her hair neatly tied back on a pony tail she could have passed for a stock model for office clothing.

Fury chose to ignore the mock cat call that came from Stark.

"You're late." He simply told the girl.

"Sorry about that, I had to go shopping for clothes and then wait for someone, but his flight got a bit delayed."

At last she had the decency to look actually apologetic.

"Wait for who?" Fury heard the Maximoff girl ask in curiosity.

"For _whom_." The other girl corrected instantly. "And for my lawyer, obviously."

"Your _what?"_ Fury's eyes narrowed at her.

No, it wasn't just the clothes, something was different about the way she carried herself too. She was slightly smiling in a way that was almost too polite to be real, but her eyes could have cut iron with their sharpness. Her every moved seem deliberate, completely calculated, and when her smile widened, he got the distinct impression of a predator.

"I don't sign anything without my lawyer, ever." She shrugged. "So let me introduce him-" She walked inside the room, leaving the door free for a man to enter after her. "Mr. Malcolm Delacroix, from Delacroix, White & Zhang."

Natasha's attention instantly zoomed on the guy. Yes, he was surely the same in the photograph; impossibly tall, dark, expensive suit and impeccable posture. His amber eyes were even more stunning in person, and when his scrutiny of every person in the room made its way to her, she felt pinned to the floor.

She didn't like this guy one bit.

"Pleasure." He said, his voice velvety, but she could tell he felt anything but.

She narrowed her eyes at him, even when they were all ushered out of the room, except for Fury, that guy, and Aisling, of course.

* * *

"It's been over three ours." Clint said.

They had all been waiting in the living room, but so far, no news.

"Did it take this long with any of you?" The archer continued.

The twins looked at each other.

"We accepted two minutes after I woke." Pietro shrugged. "No contract. No lawyer."

And yes, maybe they had been as reckless as when they recruited them for the experiments once again, but he knew- _now_ \- that the Avengers were different from HYDRA. He knew he was working to make the world a better place now, to keep the people safe.

Maybe she didn't see that, yet?

Maybe she had been screwed over by an employer before and she was now making sure it didn't happen again?

He couldn't make sense of the girl, the way one minute she could poke and probe at his scars, she could be covered in blood and vomit bullets and seem okay with that, and then when someone tried to touch her, she froze and shrank away like some shy flower.

"Maybe they all killed eachother." Tony half joked, and half of the room groaned at him.

Pietro snorted when Steve flicked a chip at him.

Five minutes after that, they all turned to the sound of three pairs of footsteps down the hallway, and half a minute later, the three owners of the footsteps entered the living room.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say Fury looked positively crushed.

"Well." Aisling extended her hand at him. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Director."

He only grunted and shook her hand once. "Welcome to the team." He muttered half-heartedly.

She shot one of those too-polite smiles at the rest, and then simply said:

"I'll see Mr. Delacroix out"

When they exited the hallway again, their voices carried still into the living room.

"You drove a hard bargain in there." There was no emotion in his voice, just the fact.

"I _did_ learn from the best." She replied, in the same tone, maybe a tiny bit softer.

Inside the living room, Fury sank into a chair and sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes.

"That guy's a shark. He was out for blood in there." He said.

" _That_ bad?" Natasha shot him a smirk.

Fury glared at her.

"He managed to convince me to grant her an _office_ , in _here_ instead of the headquarters, because apparently, she works at odd hours and can't be bothered with lots of agents around. So she'll be working from here, unless it's a top security matter." He sighed again. "And there's a confidentiality clause in her contract now in which if we divulge _anything_ on her _practices_ to other than the upper circle of command in S.H.I.E.L.D., the contract is automatically void and she can divulge any of _our_ secrets."

"And you accepted that?" Natasha asked, her eyes wide.

Fury grimaced. "He really didn't leave me any choice. And you honestly don't want to know how much we're paying her by the hour."

Pietro whistled between his teeth. This girl really knew how to cover herself.

"Sooo..." Tony dragged the word. "We have a linguist now?"

"Her contract says 'Consultant Linguist' technically. She wanted to be able to have other clients apart from S.H.I.E.L.D. if she wanted to. But that's just what her file is going to say."

"And what's her file not going to say?" Natasha inquired.

"That we got ourselves a resident witch and expert on all things ancient, dark, foreign and or magical. And that's not the worst part."

"What's the worst part?" Steve asked, worried.

"I actually _asked_ for that guy's card. He'll be my top choice for legal aid."

* * *

Later, when Pietro found her after dinner reading quietly a thick black book in the living room, alone, he simply greeted her with a "Your lawyer is a tough guy, I hear."

She looked at him briefly and smiled- it didn't reach her eyes. She turned to her book again.

"Lawyer and legal guardian. Until I turned eighteen."

"Legal guardian?" He furrowed his brow, still unfamiliar with some English terms.

She closed her book and put all of her attention on him.

"Adoptive father of sorts." She explained.

His eyes widened.

"You didn't seem-"

"Close?" She offered. "Affectionate? Family-like?"

He nodded. "You looked like... office partners?"

"That's just how it is." She stood up, book in her hands. "Goodnight."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

 **Moonflower.**

 **(Alternatively: Aidan is chaotic neutral, Malcolm lawful neutral, and Aisling true neutral.)**

* * *

The fact that she's used to them doesn't mean the Nightmares are any less dangerous.

Proof of that is the little Ogham symbol* she'd gotten inked on her left wrist some years ago, after a particular scare she got one night. She hadn't thought much of the Nightmares, given she had been practically plunged into that world when she was far too young to understand it wholly- _thank you, mother_ \- and so it came more of a surprise than anything else when someone tried to... well.

Suck her soul through a Nightmare.

If Malcolm hadn't forced her out into the waking world, she would have been worse than dead by now.

Blood was power, yes, but that was almost nothing compared to what a single soul could do.

The next day she had gone to the closest tattoo parlour she could find and asked for the little thing to be permanently etched on her skin.

There had been other scares, sure, but she had grown into being able to fight them off by herself.

That's why it doesn't come as much of a surprise when her nightly talking to her Not-Quite-Self is interrupted by the always-close-by feeling of dread, when a ghostly hand closes around her throat, cutting her air supply, and dark bitterness climbs her throat.

Not-Her looks at her with narrowed black eyes, a hiss between her pointed teeth.

"Wake up."

She does, eyes instantly snapping open.

Her head feels heavy, her eyesight is blurry and her throat dry. Bile rises from her stomach and she can't help but cough into her hand, only for her eyes to turn into platters when she sees the dark fluid staining her fingers.

It's a dark purple, almost black, and slightly oily.

 _This means Something,_ she thinks, _this definitely means Something._

Maybe, just maybe, if she can squeeze some star's luck and drink it up, it's just a coincidence; it's just one of the times that the messy, twisted web of the Nightmares gets bent out of shape and mistakes one thing for another, one _person_ for another.

But if not...

There may very well be some threat hanging in the air, something just _vaguely_ beyond that her senses can feel the edges of.

Just _what_ is she tapping into?

She needs a new knife.

Urgently.

* * *

She couldn't fall asleep again after that. At seven in the morning she decided to just give up, take a shower and get up, forcing the happenstance out of her head.

She was just too used to the feeling of certain doom and gloom that she could just push it to the back of her mind easily, leaving the task of working on it to Not-Her. Whatever, she could think about it later anyways.

By seven-thirty she arrived to the kitchen, desperate for a mug of coffee. She nodded her head in greeting at the younger twin, who was reading some magazine or another in the couch.

"Are you well?" Wanda asked, her face so friendly Ash could only cringe in response.

"Bad night." She just muttered, vaguely aware of the dark circles under her eyes.

Wanda nodded in understanding, a slight look of concern in her face. Ash wasn't deaf, her room was at the end of a hallway, and the twins' rooms where close-by. In the four nights she had been living in the tower, she'd often walked by their doors well-past midnight after long working hours and heard through the slight crack in their doors the telltale tossing and turning of nightmares. Sometimes, she heard the other twin in their sibling's bedroom, muttering comforting words in an effort to calm the other down.

It wasn't any of her business, so she'd simply grit her teeth and march towards her bedroom and her much needed rest.

She filled her mug with the pot of still-warm coffee- mentally praying that Barton had prepared this one- and took a seat on the other side of the couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. She took a happy gulp of coffee, only to grimace and wrinkle her nose in distaste.

Hearing a soft chuckle to her right, she glanced at Wanda, who had put her magazine down on the coffee table and was focusing all of her attention on her.

"Is it bad?" She asked, just a hint of a smile on her red lips.

Ash snorted. "This," she gestured towards the coffee, "is water pretending to be coffee. And failing at it."

Wanda outright laughed at this.

"Yes, I hear that you're the only one that enjoys Clint's coffee." There was a smile somewhere in there. "Is too bitter for me."

"Yeah well I _am_ bitter so..." She took another gulp and grimaced again. "No, I can't do this."

She then placed her mug on the table in front of her, and pushed it away, giving it a cold stare.

Wanda observed the girl carefully. In the past days she had started to work there, she had barely seen her, and only briefly exchanged a handful of words. She knew she spent most of her time in her office- which neither of them had seen after she had asked Tony for permission to remodel a bit- studying the different objects, artefacts and scrolls of the sort Fury sent to the tower.

If not working, she spent her time trapped in her room with the door tightly shut. Sometimes at night, Wanda was certain she could hear her soft footfalls walking down the halls of the tower, like a ghost wandering around in silence.

Pietro had told her she ran into her a couple of times when he turned to his midnight time- or early morning?- snacking. And the kitchen was the only place that appeared to be a shared zone; she didn't spend time with the team in their off-time, nor shared meals with anyone- save for, one time, coffee with Clint, but that time was spent in silence as far as she knew.

"Is it your day off?" Ash suddenly asked the girl.

"Yes," she nodded, "Steve says I'm making good progress and I can rest one day."

Wanda watched as the witch furrowed her brow and chewed on her lip, uncertain about something.

"Are you-?" She pushed her thick mane back with a hand. "I mean, if you're not doing anything right now, uh." Talking to people was _hard_. "You up for going for coffee?"

Wanda's eyes widened. "With you?"

"If you don't want to-"

"It's not that!" She smiled. "It's... a surprise."

Ash shrugged, and Wanda could've sworn she could hear the girl mumble something along the lines of ' _I just don't feel like being alone right now'_.

* * *

There's a Starbucks right over the corner- but seriously, where _isn't_ one?- and the first fifteen minutes after getting their respective drinks are spent in silence, not awkward, per se, but not a completely comfortable one either.

"You seem to be working a lot." Wanda comments in between sips of her milk tea- she had never grown used to coffee.

"They're paying me, I enjoy it, and I don't half ass things." is the only response she gets.

Wanda purses her lips at her, she reminded her of Stark sometimes, all day trapped in his lab, working on whatever he was doing at the moment. When she had commented on his habits, the millionaire had simply snorted and told her that she hadn't had properly met Bruce- she had cringed at what she had occasioned to the gentle man with her powers- but that the doctor was far, far worse than him.

Her attention is brought back to the present when Ash across her scratches the inner part of her right arm distractedly.

"How is your arm?" She asks, recalling the time she had spent trying to bandage it properly while the girl was passed out.

She had noticed she didn't wear bandages anymore, but she usually kept it close to her body, away from prying eyes.

At this, Ash grimaces.

"Eh." She vaguely answers. "Could be worse. It itches and bleeds if I poke it a lot, so I try not to. But at least it's better."

"Can I see?"

Wanda could see the witch stiffen suddenly, her back straightening, eyes measuring her up and down, trying to look for a catch, for any sign of ill intent maybe?

"I won't touch." She puts her hands up in what she hopes is a calming motion. "I just wish to see."

This seems to be enough for Ash, and she rolls back the grey sleeve of her knitted dress, laying her arm on the table.

True to her word, Wanda keeps her hands to herself, but can't help but suck air between her teeth at the angry red of the spidery scratches. True, they may be not as bad as in the beginning, but the skin is still pink and tight around them, and they look still a long way away from being just scars.

With this in mind, she can't help but ask:

"Why doesn't it heal? Time has passed, no?"

Ash shrugs at this, almost too casual to be a natural reaction, and rolls back her sleeve while darting a look around them, making sure prying eyes are far away.

For a while, Wanda thinks she's not going to answer, but then the witch darts her tongue to wet her lips at says, almost unwillingly:

"I used steel."She fumbles with the lid of her coffee. And then: "It's what happens when steel comes in contact with my blood."

Wanda nods, taking the information in.

They fall in silence again, except this time it's Aisling the one who breaks it.

"I'm not that great at-" She gestures vaguely between them. " _This_."

Wanda smiles, and it's open and friendly and the same smile her brother shoots at her when they run into each other at the small hours of morning in the kitchen and she wants to cry because her world is one of tightly closed smiles that don't reach eyes and hide poison and secrets between the lips.

She stops herself before she wants- before she _wants to want_. There's no room for that in her life, it never has been, and she's content with the way it is.

"It's alright." Wanda simply says. "I'm not... very good either. English is still difficult for us, sometimes."

 _I could help you_ , Ash thinks, but she doesn't voice it, because as much as words are her forte, as much as she speaks fluently five- not dead- languages, she doesn't do anything for free, not ever, and this girl in front of her seems too wonderful to ask her something in return, to strike a deal with.

Later, when they're crossing the street towards the tower again, Wanda comments:

"This was fun, no?"

And even if Ash wouldn't call it _fun_ precisely- it had been quieter than anything else, honestly- she startles herself with the realisation that it was _pleasant_ , that she actually _did_ have a good time.

Or didn't have a bad time?

She mixes the two notions together more often than not.

Still, there's something she likes about this girl, something that makes the words _'safe'_ , _'home'_ and _'comfortable'_ find a place on the tip of her tongue, and she startles herself even more when the words fell from her mouth:

"We could do it again?"

Wanda nods enthusiastically.

* * *

That night is one of the rare times when the whole team is having dinner together- Chinese takeout, courtesy of Stark when he found out the twins haven't had it yet- and they've put on a movie in the living room, some romantic comedy, apparently, but Pietro's not paying too much attention, instead, he's staring at the door, where Aisling is hovering, looking very much like a deer caught in the headlights.

It's not long before everyone else looks at her too, the idle chatter dying slowly until the only sounds are the ones coming from the movie.

"I was starting to think you were just a figment of our collective imagination." Stark speaks with his mouth still half full.

She simply rolls her eyes at him.

"You know, there's plenty of food in here." Steve comments his bait, his offer. "You could join us."

She shakes her head, white waves bouncing around her face with the motion.

"Thanks, but no. I need to get back to work. I just, I was wondering if I could borrow a phone to make a call?"

Seeing as he's the closest to the door- and after a nudge and a sharp Look form Wanda- Pietro grabs his blue Iphone from his pocket- courtesy, again, of Stark, who was still apologising for what had happened to their parents- and stands to offer it to her wordlessly. Even if she shoots him a tight smile in thanks, he notices she still flinches when their fingers touch.

"It'll just be a minute." She promised.

She walks towards the door again, not exiting the room completely, but just enough that she's out of immediate hearing range. Pietro looks back to the group and find that Natasha and Clint are focusing in the movie once again, while Steve and Tony are arguing about who's eaten most popcorn so far.

His sister looks at him, and then at the girl with his phone. She motions him to go near her, but he's uncertain; she's _clearly_ not totally comfortable with them, and he doesn't want to intrude in her conversation.

Then again... he supposes she _could_ have left the room if she wanted to keep it private. Arguing with himself, he concludes that he's already standing up anyways, and that he can go back at the first sign that he's not welcome in her proximity.

When he- too casually- crosses his arms over his chest and leans his weight on the wall near her, Ash only lifts one eyebrow at him, no hostility in the gesture, just curiosity.

He shrugs. He can't offer a proper reply, really, nothing that's not 'my sister has been saying to be friends with you for two days now'.

Whatever she opens her mouth to say gets lost when someone apparently picks up the other end of the line, and she simply opens with:

"Hey, it's me."

She rolls her eyes at whatever response she gets.

"No, I'm _not_ dead," she continues, "I lost my phone and didn't get a new one." she sighs, "well I was in vacation! Yes, _four months_!" She rolls her eyes again, "don't make me remind you the time you eloped with that dumb brunette wannabe dancer for like, a year, to Cancún or whatever." She smirks after that, as smug as she can, "thought so. So listen, I- uh, remember what happened a while ago in Sokovia? That little place in Eastern Europe? Crazy robots or whatever? Yeah, I lost my stuff in there, and I'm done with my time off, so I need things to start working again. Oh, I got a job," she chuckles, "yes, like, a _real_ job. If I say a list of stuff, can you get it for me?" And the answer must have been positive, because she smiles brightly. "Belladonna, foxglove, mistletoe, holly, mandrake... oh, and rowan bark if you still can find some. St. John's wort too- yes, I know it's ironic, shut up. I'm going to need some candles too, you know, my usual pick. And some of that gold thread? The last batch was really good. Oh, feathers. And, uh..." She lowers her voice and worries her lower lip, shooting Pietro a slightly pained look, "I... may have lost my knife too."

Pietro can't help but flinch at the indistinctive shouting that comes from the phone, and Ash simply shoots a helpless look at the ceiling.

"Yes... Yes I know. I'm sorry, yeah, I know what you went through to get me the knife. Yes, it was beautiful. I'm sorry. Fine, yeah, I don't deserve you, whatever, can you get me a new one or not?" And then she smiles relieved, "you're the best- or, no, you're not the worst. Uh, where am I? Well, just send the stuff to New York- yes, I know it's not my usual scene... Uh... do you know the former Stark Tower? Avengers Tower now? Yeah... I'm sort of... working there..."

Pietro feels a pang of sympathy towards the girl at the loud and clear scream of ' _what the hell?'_ that he can _clearly_ hear.

"Yeah, no, I'm not joking. I'm seriously working there."

And then, a bark of laughter, hysterical laughter, comes from the other end of the line.

"Are you done?" She huffs, and it's just him or she looks embarrassed? "Just send it as soon as you can. Oh, shut up already." And she hangs up with no other than that.

This time, when she hands him his phone back, he makes sure their fingers doesn't touch.

"They sounded... surprised?" He comments.

"That's just my guy." She grimaces. "A pain in the ass half the time, but he gets things done."

That's when Stark jumps out of his spot in the sofa, because while they may have forgotten the others in the room for the time being, they had been listening in, apparently.

"Wait, wait, time out!" The millionaire ignores the glare Clint shoots at him when he- _accidentally?-_ turns the popcorn bowl upside down the archer's lap with his sudden movement. Natasha hides her smile behind her hand.

By that time, the movie gets completely forgotten.

"When you say _your guy_ , you mean _the_ guy?" Starks points an accusing finger in Ash's general direction.

"Uh-" She takes an unsure step backwards, feeling selfconscious under their collective stares. Wanda's the only one she doesn't particularly mind.

" _The_ guy! The one that made you basically a ghost on the internet! The ' _I know a guy'_ guy!"

"Oh." She blinks, finally making sense of what he's asking her. "Yes, that guy."

* * *

The following day, Natasha was coming back from a meeting down the Headquarters, when she noticed some guy with a box and a bored expression, idly chewing gum and blowing the occasional bubble in the lobby, next to the receptionist desk.

"Oh, Miss Romanoff!" The receptionist, an over-eager blonde woman with perfectly manicured nails called at her, "We have a, uh, _situation_ here." She gestured towards the guy.

"Thank you, Sarah," Natasha greeted the woman, "I'll take it from here." She eyed the guy up and down, he looked completely non-threatening, just a standard delivery guy with a nondescript jacket with the collar turned up to fend off the cold, a dark blue baseball cap with some delivery company logo on the front; and it was all complete with the dead eyes look of someone who's overworked and underpaid.

"Afternoon ma'am." he greeted, "I have a package for..." he eyed the receipt's smudged handwriting. "Ashleigh Datura? Ashley-?"

" _Aisling_ ," she corrected, "she's probably working upstairs; I can take it to her." She went to grab the box in her hands, but the guy sidestepped her with scandalised open eyes.

"Nooo" He dragged the word in a panicked voice, "sorry, I can't do that. I was given specific instructions to only give it to miss Datura herself, ma'am." He then shifted his weight and looked down at the floor, almost whispering: "I have two strikes already. I don't want to get fired."

Natasha sighed. Why couldn't things ever be done the easy way?

"Fine." She crossed her arms, "you can come up, but I'll be watching you, so no funny business."

He gulped, and she briefly wondered if he had swallowed his gum with the action.

"Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am."

* * *

"Listen Speedy, it's nothing like that terrible thing Clint makes us drink when it's his turn to make a pot. That's like, coffee grains with a bit of water," Tony eyed Pietro's doubtful expression in front of him, "fine coffee, _real_ coffee is good for the soul!"

Pietro casted the mug in front of them a doubtful look, and then pushed it away from him.

"Is too bitter." He simply stated

"You're being a _child_ about this."

"I don't like things bitter!" He waved his hands around for emphasis. It wasn't the first time they were having this discussion, after all.

"Okay, look," Tony started to say, "what about-"

" _Tony!"_

They both looked at each other before turning to the door and finding- a slightly annoyed- Natasha, with some guy hovering behind her, darting nervous looks around.

In their experience, an annoyed Natasha was never something good.

"Uh," the millionaire straightened his back, "yes? What can I do for you?"

"Aisling." She gestured towards the guy behind her. "She has a thing. Where is she?"

"Uh, I'm not sure," Tony furrowed his brow, "in her office?" he suggested.

"She's with Wanda." Pietro chimed in, "my sister wanted to ask her about something. I go get her?"

Natasha nodded. "Tell her she's got a package."

With that he ran out of the room, leaving a faint silver blur behind him.

"Woah." The delivery guy muttered. "That's like, really cool."

Tony smirked.

Less than twenty seconds later, Pietro was back, his hands casually in his pockets.

"They're coming here," he informed, "they were talking about... reading tea?" he pursed his lips, "divinating with tea leaves?"

" _Tasseomancy."_ The guy with the box stage-whispered. Natasha looked back at him in curiosity, and the guy fidgeted, trying to make himself smaller.

Pietro shared a look with Tony.

Huh. That was strange.

Two minutes later, Aisling entered the room, and stiffened when she looked at the guy.

"Seriously?" She crossed her arms over her chest. " _Seriously?_ You could have literally sent anyone else."

Something shifted then, the guy scurried around Natasha, his posture straighter now, the nervousness of his eyes now something much colder, and sharper.

And more dangerous.

"Well, yeah, I _could have_ , but I'm nosy." His monotone voice suddenly gained a distinct Irish accent filled with smugness.

Ash snorted. "Understatement of the year," she took the box from his hands- and then placed it immediately on the floor, visibly bothered by its heaviness.

He shrugged. "Don't blame me for being curious about this, what did you expect? You call me and apparently, you've got a serious job, with the Avengers? Ha!" He put his hands on his hips. "You have to admit that's rich. So what, don't tell me you're playing straight now, being a lapdog for S.H.I.E.L.D. or whatever, I know you, what's the endgame?"

She rubbed her tired eyes with her left hand, trying to ignore how everyone else stiffened in alert at his words.

She was going to kill him, one of these days.

Pietro looked at Tony, unsure; the man was blinking rapidly at the scene developing in front of them, opening his mouth and closing it several times.

He then looked at Natasha, whose back was straight as a ramrod, her eyes narrowed, probably trying to assess the level of threat.

"There's no endgame," Ash talked slowly, almost as if she was talking to a child, "I just got a very good deal doing something I like, and I took it."

"Yeah, no, that's a lie." He dismissed easily. "You can't lie to me, you know that. There's something else in here... Wait... I know, how much are they paying you?"

She huffed. "Can we not discuss my contract?"

He simply shot her a look.

"Fine!" She threw her hands up in the air before rising on tips of her toes to whisper the answer in his ear.

He whistled. "Per week?"

"Per _hour_."

He chuckled. "Delacroix played his part in this, didn't he?"

"Doesn't he always?"

"Well that _could_ explain what you're doing here, but..." he tapped his fingers against his chin, "you _do_ know you're still settling, right? You're underpaid."

Apparently, that's all it took for Tony to finally be able to string his thoughts together and make himself heard:

"Uh, yeah, not to interrupt this lovely meeting, but _what_?" Tony pointed a finger at the guy, "first of all, who the hell are you? And also, _underpaid_? _Seriously?_ I mean, Fury let me look at her contract and it's ridiculous."

The guy simply stared at him. Then he looked back at Ash, and back at Tony. Then at Pietro and Natasha- he may or may not have flinched there.

"Oh my God." He muttered, eyes wide, "you seriously have no idea," he looked at Ash once again, "they seriously have _no idea._ "

She shrugged, bothered, and he only smiled like the cat who got the cream.

"You," he gestured towards the three people opposite to them, "have _seriously_ no idea whatsoever about how much people pay her to do," he waved his hands around vaguely, "what she does. She can't stay too long in one place before people throw her contracts and job offers at her."

Tony glanced at the short girl- whose ears were starting to turn a lovely shade of red. Sure, she was good, Fury had said so, but _that_ good?

Pietro shifted his weight, uneasy with the whole situation. He didn't like this guy.

"And to answer your other question-" The guy took off his jacket revealing a neon orange hoodie underneath with the words _Fuck Off_ printed on the front- which made Tony snort- and then removed the cap from his head, letting his fire red hair cascade down past his shoulders. "Hi." He didn't extend his hand, "Aidan O'Brien. So sorry for the deceit, I just wanted to actually talk to Ash."

Natasha eyed hip up and down. He was, without a doubt, the same guy from the photograph; the same pale complexion, the same ridiculous hair, the same slightly crooked nose- possibly broken before.

Ash rubbed her nose and huffed:

" _No._ You just wanted to stick your nose in my business and see if you _could_ actually get in."

His smile only widened at that, and he shrugged, shooting an apologetic look at Natasha.

She only glared daggers at him, and he squirmed into his place, taking a not very subtle step backwards, slightly behind Aisling.

Pietro smirked; he hadn't met anyone so far who didn't react in a similar way to Natasha's glare. When pissed off, the woman simply exuded an 'I could kill you with over ten objects in the room right now' aura. Or, at least, that was what Tony had called it.

"Uh, right." Aidan cleared his throat, uncomfortable still under the redhead's stare. "Anyways- Ash, here." He knelt on the floor and opened the box for her to inspect.

She nodded and sat down, taking an assorted variety of mostly candles and dried plants out of the box. She suddenly furrowed her brow and hissed at Aidan: "Seriously?"

He smirked at her when she took out a potted plant with a single trumpet-like white flower. She narrowed her eyes at it.

"I didn't ask for this."

"I know. It's on the house."

"I don't _want_ it."

"But it suits you."

"Yes, that exactly why I don't want it, Aidan. You know that."

"I know that." He conceded. "But you should still keep it."

Tony pursed his lips. He didn't know what kind of flower was that, but along his life, he'd always smoothed things over with women with flowers. And it was a pretty flower too. There was something more in there, something deeper than just a flower, and he couldn't help but notice how little they actually knew about the witch.

He shot a look at Pietro, the question clear in his eyes, but he only shrugged helplessly, signalling he had no idea either.

Natasha was still distracted- probably picturing ways of murdering Aidan, Tony supposed- to pay them much attention.

Ash groaned but put the plant with the other things. Then, she reached inside and took out the last item on the box- a sheathed dagger, wrapped in light blue silk. She looked at Aidan, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other.

"A dagger?" She asked. "I asked for a knife in the general sense of the word."

"And I improved your order," he shrugged, "but look for yourself."

Pietro watched in fascination as Aisling unwrapped the dagger with an almost loving tenderness, at the way she touched the worn leather sheath in reverence, and then slid out the blade, only for her eyes to shine in admiration.

"This is really good." She muttered.

The blade was thin, simple, with tiny glyphs carved along one side of its length, and a single word in a flowery font on the other.

 _Moonflower._

He watched her narrow her eyes when she read it, and shoot a glare at the Aidan, who was just smirking at her.

"Was this necessary?" She hissed at him.

"Of course it wasn't. But I had fun doing it."

She sighed.

"Well. I suppose this is as good as it gets. Thanks, Aidan." She stood up. "How much is it?"

He shrugged. "Oh, nothing, no worries."

She stiffened visibly, narrowing her eyes at him. If Pietro thought this was a strange reaction, he said nothing about it.

"You and I don't do things for free, Aidan."

"No." His smile turned predatory, and he stood up, towering over her. "However we _do_ deal in favours."

Natasha was still trying to read the situation, one minute ago they seemed familiar enough to be friendly, and now they were standing in front of each other, coiled and ready to spit poison at the minimum provocation. She had thought he was Ash's friend, but now she had to wonder...

Aidan reached into his pocket and took out a folded paper, which he gave the witch.

"There's a guy," he said casually, "he owes me money, a lot of it, and he skipped town."

"Can't you track him?" Ash asked, reading the contents of the paper, her eyes rapidly going over the picture of a balding man in his forties.

"No like I usually do, no. The guy found someone to make him disappear, make him virtually untraceable by the usual methods," he shrugged, "but _you_ can find him."

"It's not that easy," she rolled her eyes, "just because I _make it_ look easy, doesn't mean it is. I need something of his, or a bit of his hair, or-"

"Blood?" Aidan cut her short, and made a tiny phial appear from inside his sleeve. "It's his. Don't ask how I got it, he's just careless- or stupid- enough to make it easy to get his blood."

She took the phial into her hands, observing the red liquid inside.

There was something there, then, something in her eyes that shifted, Tony noticed. A dark shadow, just passing by, but still strong enough for him to note at a distance.

He made the mental note not to let her hands in his blood, just in case.

"Well, blood _is_ power. Although there's what, a handful of drops in here?" She chastised, "this makes things easier, but not by much. Blood magic is tricky, you know, there's a reason it's so frowned upon very few people practise it."

"Then I'm lucky I know one of the selected few that do practise it" he smiled, "but if you can't do it..."

" _Can't do it?_ Ha!" She snorted angrily, "who do you think I am? Of course I can."

He just smiled; his smile a little bit too full of teeth. "I trust it'll be done by tomorrow night?"

"Sure, just give me enough time to prepare. It's been a while since I had to track someone this way. What, do you want me to some blood pact so I don't break my word too?"

He snorted. "No, I trust you."

" _Really_?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Well, no, but we have enough dirt on each other to try and do things as amicably as we can between us, right?"

He offered her his hand, and she shook it once. It was an almost violent gesture, void of any affection.

"Pleasure doing business with you, miss Datura."

"Yeah, yeah." She sighed. "You're nothing but trouble, honestly. Now go away."

"Of course." He chuckled. "Oh, before I forget. Here." He handed her a brand new phone in a sparkling silvery case. "Not all of us are so keen on the whole 'cut your wrist and talk through mirrors' thing, so do us both a favour and just text me. I have enough with Delacroix as it is."

Only when Natasha had so very happily offered to escort Aidan off the premises- Ash sincerely hoped she'd make the short elevator ride a living hell for the guy- she seemed to remember Tony and Pietro.

"So, what the hell was that?" Tony asked her.

"That was _the guy_ , Mr. Stark," she started to put all the contents inside of the box once again, for easier transportation.

" _Really?_ " He whistled between his teeth, "Well, your friend is sort of an idiot."

"He's a complete jackass." She agreed. "But he's _not_ my friend." And then lower, a whisper: "I don't have friends."

Pietro watched as something sad flitted through her eyes momentarily, but it passed to quickly for him to pinpoint what was it, exactly. Sensing his stare, she looked at him in a way that was _almost_ shy.

Later, he still couldn't keep from his mind the way Aidan had smiled at her, all teeth and no joy.

* * *

"Hey."

She looked up from her blade and startled herself into those eyes so blue that she could kill something. Probably not the best line of thought with a knife in her hand, she idly mused.

"Hungry?" She half-smiled at him.

Pietro shrugged. "Couldn't sleep." He offered instead.

It was a lie, she could sense it, and one half-assed at that, but it wasn't her business to pry, so she simply nodded at him.

He walked up to her and rested his elbows on the kitchen counter, holding her gaze. She was the first one to break away. He had seen something in her earlier that day, she'd realised. Something she wasn't particularly keen on sharing.

"Back in Sokovia," he started, "before HYDRA; I worked with people sometimes. _Bad_ people. Sometimes they lent money. Sometimes they sent _me_ to collect the money," he shrugged. "That guy from before? He talked like them."

She sighed, shoulders sagging.

"I'm not going to lie to you," she lied to herself enough at it is, "he's not really _good_. Then again, neither am I, honestly, just because I look or dress a certain way doesn't mean anything. He's not going to hurt the guy, if that makes you feel any better." She kept the _'probably'_ to herself. Aidan usually tried not to spill any blood, but he definitely _had_ his temper.

It wasn't pretty.

Pietro nodded. "Can you really do it?" he asked, "Know where someone is with blood?"

She looked at him in the eye once again, and they were close enough for him to notice the tiny flecks of blue dancing in between all the light grey.

"I can do a lot of things with someone's blood. Most of them are really harmful."

"Oh?" He tilted his head. "And you've done this?"

At that moment he noticed a change, subtle and swift but it was still there, right before her eyes hardened and she went miles away. Right there, in just the glimpse of a second- but he was fast enough to catch it, _obviously_ \- right there, he saw that same sadness once again.

There was something deeply rooted in her that made her sad, and he couldn't help but wish to know what it was.

"Please don't ask things you don't want to know." And then that smile, that horrible smile that was sickly pleasant and all the while terrible. "Please don't forget what I am," She whispered only for him to hear in the darkness of the kitchen, "I know I don't forget it."

* * *

 ***"At its simplest, the Ogham is an ancient Celtic alphabet consisting of twenty characters. These characters were simple and easily drawn using downward and upward strokes. It's theorized that these characters might have been conveyed as hand signals (much like sign language on a simplified level) too.**

 **When we get past this face-value definition of the Ogham, we discover that the Celtsintertwined their communionwith nature into this writing system. They did this by assigning a tree to each of the twenty symbols of the Ogham (or more accurately, vice versa). Stepping intoanother level of intricacy,we find each tree represents a particular characteristic within the Ogham."**

 **(Taken from whats-your-sign dot com, given that I'm no expert whatsoever in celtic symbology. The specific symbol Aisling has tattooed is the one for the rowan tree, which, according to what I could find, means protection, balance, divination, connection, mystery, among other things).**


	6. Chapter 6

**Heya, so I was a bit caught up with exams- I passed them all because I rock, duh- but now I'm back. Also I'll probably update older chapters in the following days after posting this, so yeah, thanks to** _ **WriteWithFeeling**_ **and** _ **Dustfinger's cheering section**_ **for their- really good- advices.**

 **As usual, follows, favs and reviews are greatly appreciated.**

* * *

 **Chapter VI**

 **Poison.**

 **(Or, Ash looks quite violent stabbing fake animals and it's a bit scary.)**

* * *

Days start to pass, then they turn into weeks, and before he really notices it, two more months go by.

After roughly six months as an Avenger- _ha_ , if his younger self could see this right now...- it's only the past Monday that he finally realised how much the media keeps an eye on them. Well, yes, he had _obviously_ noticed the Captain's face on, well, _a lot of things_ \- a fact that Stark used to tease the soldier relentlessly, no doubt- but he most certainly hadn't been expecting to see his own face on the cover of a magazine under the title _Quicksilver: new superhero heartthrob!_

Wanda had laughed _so hard_ about it.

He didn't mind, not really- and _no_ , it _definitely_ had _nothing_ to do with his sister calling him a show-off, thank you very much- except for the nickname.

 _Quicksilver?_

He didn't even get to pick his own name?

Well, after days of musing over it- and _definitely not_ pouting- he'd arrived to the conclusion that hey, at least it was better than _Speedy_ or _Dash_ or whatever else Stark called him these days.

They've all commented about the magazine, too. From the ones that outright laughed at the article- Wanda, Stark- to the ones that made clever remarks a couple of times- Natasha and Clint- and even then the one who smiled and seemed relieved to have the spotlight off him for once- Steve. Obviously.

And Ash.

Ash too.

It had been during one of their late night encounters- that had become more or less a routine to him- when he had stumbled half asleep into the kitchen. He had vaguely registered her reading by one of the stools at the counter- that's what he mostly found her doing, anyways- so he didn't pay much attention to the girl until he was rummaging through the fridge and simply _felt_ her eyes directed at the back of his head.

He turned around curious, and found her still staring, lightly biting her lower lip and that's when he realised what reading material she had chosen for tonight.

She didn't say anything, but then again, she didn't really have to, not when she was giving him a Look that said so much- her eyes were quite expressive, if you got past that thick wall of harsh coldness and certain disdain towards humanity.

"Not you _too_." He grunted into his palms, eyes tightly closed.

That night, Pietro went to sleep again without his midnight snack.

And just as well he pretended he didn't hear the muffled chuckles coming from the kitchen on his way out.

 _Aisling._

That was a topic frequently discussed around the Tower.

On the two months she had been working there, _living there_ , none of them saw much of her. Pietro had noticed she seemed to be quite more active during the night hours and early morning, or, at least, those were the times she was more easily found, with a bit of luck.

He knew her office was on one of the highest floors, and that she was there for hours and hours, working on whatever scroll or tablet or artefact Fury had sent her to translate and offer her opinion on what to do with it.

More of her opinions, apparently, where 'just destroy the stupid thing before some idiot wants to tinker with it and kills us all'.

He hadn't seen her workspace, only Stark had done so, apparently, and he had come back- fifteen minutes later- with a poorly hidden chuckle and a piece of paper with Aisling's flowery handwriting stating:

' _Banned for touching things.'_

He hadn't said exactly _what_ had happen, only that the girl was super fun to annoy, according to him. The next time he had tried to enter her office, he'd come back claiming that some sort of _'barrier thing'_ hadn't allowed him to pass through the threshold.

He'd spent that night shooting nasty glares at the witch, when she came down to grab some dinner. She didn't even bother to hide the smug smile on her face.

The only one who had apparently broken through the girl's metaphorical walls- and not in a way that ended up her looking like she wished to stab something- was Wanda.

Pietro had found them together quite a lot of times when he'd gone looking for his sister, and even if Aisling hadn't been laughing with an open and friendly face, she'd still had, made the conscious decision of looking for Wanda to spend some time with, or so his sister told him.

That must mean something, right?

But all of this thinking and musing ended up making him loose all traces of sleep. So after looking at his alarm clock and finding out it was four in the morning, he decided to get up and try his chances with the object of his thoughts for the past minutes.

She was there, obviously. It was their shared space at these hours.

But not the way he'd been expecting her to be; not reading quietly and out of the way.

With fingers ink-stained and her hair in disarray, she was hunched over a stack of unorganised papers, fast asleep.

 _Huh_.

He studied her for a while, from the way her eyelids barely moved with the hint of a dream in her mind, to the curve of her slightly upturned nose and the Cupid's bow of her pink lips. To say she was pretty was an understatement; she was beautiful in a sense that evoked both innocence and purity, all big eyes and fluttering dresses and small frame.

His eyes ended up on the scratches inside her right arm.

 _Then again..._

He knew- she herself had told him- that she was anything _but_. How many times had she entered the room with bloodstains on her fingers that she didn't seem to notice anymore? How many times had she assured that she could deal a lot of pain to someone if she really wanted to? How many times had he caught her talking on the phone in hushed tones with a smile that was positively predatory, only to finish her conversation hurriedly when she spotted him?

It was hard, to try and merge the two images of the sleeping girl before him; the girl who looked tiny and fragile and ran away from human touch- the one who saved his life- and the girl who bled and vomited and cut without a second thought, who turned all business and sharpness in a breath's moment.

She muttered something in her sleep and he snapped out of his thoughts. Some hair had fallen away from her shoulders, and he noticed goosebumps on her pale skin.

Well, it _was_ a rather chilly night.

Debating his options, it really didn't take much to convince himself to go fetch a blanket and throw it over her shoulders before going back to bed.

* * *

"He looks at you."

Aisling tore her eyes from the depths of her coffee and raised an eyebrow at Wanda.

"What?"

The girl in front of her looked at some point behind her.

"That guy. He looks at you since we come in."

She looked over her shoulder at some hipster guy with thick glasses who smiled at her. She turned back around, towards Wanda and her coffee.

"You do not like him?"

She just shrugged, lips pursed, staring into the black of her beverage.

Wanda swallowed a sigh. She just wanted Ash to actually properly smile for once, she was always so alone, so quiet, so...

 _So sad..._

She knew she had a hard time with people, and the personal things she'd shared were very few and inconsequential, but the witch seemed to like her company, and that was something good, right?

They've made a habit on getting coffee when she had her mornings off, and even though Ash listened more than talked, and if some days she barely talked at all, at least she seemed mostly at ease with her.

"I've tried it before, you know?" Aisling muttered, fiddling with the almost-scars on her right arm.

"Tried what?" Wanda asked softly.

"The whole..." She searched for words in the air, somewhere. "The whole _romance thing_."

"Dating?"

" _That. Dating."_ She spat out the word, then shrugged. "I don't know, it didn't work for me. I just couldn't stomach the whole 'getting to know someone and your shared interests', I don't know, I don't really like people," she added almost as an afterthought, "then I thought that hey, maybe I have a problem with romance, so I got straight to bed with some guys. Which was fine actually, it was... enjoyable? But... still sort of... bland, in the end." She worried her lip, brow furrowed. "So then I thought that maybe I didn't like guys really, but with girls it turned to be pretty much the same. But then again, it's not as if I'm uninterested in the subject or feel aversion towards it." She shrugged. "Something was just... Missing, every time, and I don't know what."

Wanda took a sip of her milked tea and regarded the girl curiously.

"Maybe you're waiting for the right person?" She offered.

Ash snorted into her coffee.

"Well if there is such a person, I pity their poor soul."

On their way back, the guy smiled to her again. She sighed, and then shot him back an apologetic smile. She couldn't deal with this right now, she had tried it before and it didn't work, why would it change this time?

Besides, she didn't really need this in her life. She didn't really want this. It was fine, perfectly fine, she was happy to be mostly alone.

' _Liar'_ , a voice in her head sounded surprisingly like Aidan's. ' _Liar, liar, liar...'_ It chanted.

* * *

Again she woke up having trouble to breathe, an invisible hand around her throat, spitting out that dark fluid.

This was the third time and she was sick of it. She needed to find out what was she tapping into before it drove her insane.

She got out of bed and reached for the candles she had stashed under her bed, her knife, and a lighter.

She had work to do, after all.

* * *

A black candle to pierce the Veil, to uncover what's underneath, to cross between the realms of the waking world and the Nightmares, of reality and the subconscious. A black candle to act like a hand, to reach forward and bring back what she was missing, to uncover what's been hidden.

A purple candle to tap into the poison left in her mouth, to track what slipped away from her hands, slimy and oily, and slithered back into the darkness. A purple candle to act like a beacon for her to follow.

A white candle to be her light, her rope tying her to this world. A white candle to ensure she didn't got lost trying to find her way back again, a white candle beckoning her back once she was done, protecting her from being Lost.

Three candles in front of her, all lit and waiting. The knife in her left hand, hungry and glinting.

She took it to her right palm and cut.

The words came to her easily, foreign and familiar all the same. She closed her eyes.

She reached, farther, farther, farther, with the hand of her mind, eager to clutch what she had been missing, to bring it before her eyes for her to observe. She coughed.

Dark liquid splattered in the floor before her.

Not enough, she needed to reach farther still, to uncover the secret hidden from her. She coughed again, more liquid splattering on the floor and running down the corner of her mouth.

Still not yet, and the back of her mind vaguely wondered why this was being so hard, what could it be that was so concealed under layers and layers of spider webs. Someone had a secret.

She reached farther into the Dark, sweat glistening on her forehead, and then-

That's it.

Then she started to retch first, her stomach contracting rapidly, and then that dark foul fluid invaded her lungs, her throat, her everything, and it was coming down in tides from her mouth, thick and bitter and staining her chin, her hands, the front of her nightshirt.

There, that was it.

When she was sure no more of it was coming out from her mouth- and ignoring the tears stinging the corners of her eyes- she finally opened her lids to stare at the candles, now unlit, with thin tendrils of smoke dancing words in the air; to stare at the fluid on the floor, at the way it sizzled and moved, getting together, forming a shape, forming...

Her eyebrows shot up.

That was _not_ what she had been expecting.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Pietro came out of his shower, his hair still wet. He took a couple of steps towards the living room, intent being the first one there to pick what to order for dinner- it was usually quite a lengthy debate whenever they were all present, when a sound made him stop in his tracks and turn around.

Surprisingly, Aisling's door wasn't completely shut this time, and through the thin opening where smoke was coming through, he could distinctly hear the sound of dry heaving first, and then...

Alarmed, he neared the door. Was she vomiting blood again? It was an unspoken rule not to bother her when she was in her room, but he was honestly worried now; what if she was hurt? Steeling himself, he swiftly opened the door, the words ' _are you ill?'_ dying in his throat upon the scene.

Still in her nightshirt, she was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, right hand bloodied, but that wasn't what caught his eye. She was covered in some sort of blackish fluid staining everything around her, and there, at her feet, hissing and dangerously close to the girl, one of the biggest snakes he'd ever seen.

The creature turned its head towards him, and Aisling's eyes opened wide, going from him to the creature and back again.

"What-?" He started to ask, but she screamed over his voice.

"Close the door!"

But it was a second too late and he jumped when the snake slithered over his feet and darted through the hallway, while he was too stunned to move.

Aisling groaned into her palms.

She then stood up, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth in a half-hearted attempt to clean the liquid and only managing to smudge it further.

"Just for future reference." She grimaced. "Don't open the door to my room without permission."

Pietro blinked, looking at the girl up and down.

"What was that?" He finally managed after reorganising his thoughts.

Because that thing, whatever it was, wasn't a normal snake, he was sure of that.

She rolled her eyes and walked towards him.

"An illusion. Of sorts." She shrugged. "Harmless really, but it'd be better to find it quickly before hell breaks loose."

That's when a scream was heard, and Aisling closed her eyes tightly, cursing under her breath.

"Looks like it found Stark. Come on, we-"

Well. To be fair, she _had_ said _quickly_ , probably forgetting who she was talking to, but still, he couldn't be blamed for simply lifting her into his arms and running towards the living room before the girl could finish the sentence, right?

When they arrived they found Stark standing atop of the couch, eyes wide as saucers, staring at the huge snake moving across the carpet, hissing in threat.

Still in his arms- and gripping tightly his shirt with the hand that wasn't holding her knife, but he was going to be nice and not mention that- Aisling narrowed her eyes at Pietro.

"Bit of a warning next time."

He shrugged, an apologetic half a smile on his lips.

She narrowed her eyes further, before remembering where she was and what was she supposed to be doing and instantly letting go of him and darting after the snake.

"Don't worry Mr. Stark." She shot back at him. "It's not real."

"It's not real my _ass_!" He replied, still standing on the couch. "It felt very real when it slid over my foot!"

Aisling rolled her eyes at him, finally being able to capture the animal in her hands. The creature thrashed and hissed and spat at her- _ew_ \- and wrapped its tail around her legs making her trip, her knife falling to the floor with a clatter.

A migraine. She was starting to feel a migraine forming.

The snake finally relaxed into her hands after she started to run her bloody fingers over its scaly body, shushing it into calmness. It raised its head, its body still wrapped around her legs and waist, and stared directly into her eyes, its tongue darting in and out, measuring her.

She petted its head with a scowl, while searching the floor with her fingers, right hand around the head of the snake, making sure it didn't move.

Then she finally found the hilt of her dagger and in one swift movement she buried the blade into the snake's throat.

The animal hissed horribly and thrashed in horrible pain in her hands, purple-black oozing from the wound before finally falling limp, its mouth open.

Aisling sighed as the animal started to turn into the same dark fluid from the beginning once again, and then to black smoke, diluting in the air as if it never had been there.

She sighed again.

And then she realised that while she had been caught up, the rest of the team had rushed into the living room, and that everyone was stock still staring at her.

 _This._ This was why she always kept her door closed.

She looked into everyone's eyes, from Pietro, who was hugging Wanda over the shoulders with one arm, to Natasha and Clint, who had their hands on the hilts of the knives they always carried, to Tony, whose jaw was slack, still on his spot on the couch, and finally Steve, who looked half horrified and half curious.

Right.

To their eyes, she had just tamed down quite a large snake and then killed it in cold blood.

And then the snake had disappeared.

And she was sitting on the floor, still in her nightshirt, her right hand bloody and the rest of her stained in some sort of dark fluid.

 _Right_.

It was Steve who finally voiced everyone's thoughts, taking a doubtful step forward:

"What _was_ that?"

"Just the physical manifestation of a thought." She shrugged with one shoulder. "Harmless, really, but pretty scary if you don't know what it is."

She pursed her lips then.

"Sorry, I guess, for the scare," she added, "but it was _not_ my fault the thing got away from my room."

She didn't look at Pietro. She didn't look at him in such an obvious way that everyone else _did_ look at the guy. He shifted under the stares, mumbling an apology.

Tony finally descended from the couch, walked up to the witch, offering her a hand to stand.

She refused and stood by herself.

"What kind of thought looks like a snake?" The millionaire asked her.

"Well." She blinked at him, speaking slowly. "A poisonous one." She kept the ' _obviously'_ to herself.

Uncomfortable with the stares and the loud silence, she quickly excused herself saying that she had a lot to do, but stopped before Pietro, and jabbed her finger into his chest.

"Don't go into my room without permission." She hissed before pretty much running away.

And if she was close enough to hear Natasha's voice curled into a smirk and say 'Nice scream, by the way, Stark.' And the chorus of laughter that followed after that, she was much in a hurry to pay attention.

Hours later, when he was in the middle of a discussion with Clint about pizza toppings, Pietro suddenly realised that that last moment before Aisling retired- _escaped_ \- , that was the most physical contact she'd had with him, willingly, and outside treating wounds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews! This is probably my favourite chapter so far, and so,** _ **so**_ **very self-indulgent and full of Pietro. Also, I'm sort of sleepy by the time I'm finishing revising this, so let me know if you find any horrible mistake in here.**

* * *

 **Chapter VII**

 **The Milestone.**

 **(Because Ed Sheeran is right about stuff sometimes.)**

* * *

It's slow and gradual, but little by little the proofs that Ash actually lives in the Tower start to appear, because in the first three months, she's living there, but not really _living_ there, not like the rest of them.

It's the little things, then, that become testimony of her moulding into their lives. And yes, it's still hard to find her at actual _normal_ hours, and no, she still doesn't eat with them or joke around, and she's still secretive about many phone calls and what she calls 'business meetings', but there's progress, there, _somewhere_.

It's in the little trinkets and pieces of her life and trade that appear in corners and hallways, it's some leftover ash on a windowsill and salt piled in corners, the stray book misplaced in the living room, a half-empty mug of undrinkable coffee forgotten in the kitchen, an ancient scroll mixed with the pages of the newspaper, or the broom that keeps appearing across the threshold of the Tower's main entrance at night.

Most of the things, they all agree to leave alone- except for Stark, of course, but Pietro sometimes doubts the man has respect for anything, honestly.

And that's how Pietro finds himself rolling his eyes at the millionaire, while the man in question has a Cheshire smile and a leather-bound book on his hands.

"Don't," Steve tells him, "Tony, don't. You don't know what could happen."

"Aw, come on, Cap! It's a _book_."

The soldier crosses his arms in defiance, clearly expressing his position on the matter.

"It's a _witch's_ book. She made pretty clear not to touch her stuff."

Tony actually pouts at him, "If it was such a dangerous thing she wouldn't have left it on the magazine rack!"

"I don't know," Steve continues, "doesn't she seem forgetful sometimes to you?"

And Pietro thinks that yes, when the half-circles under her eyes are especially dark, she tends to be more distracted than usual, but he wasn't sure the others had noticed until now. They're subtle things, sometimes, like when she's talking to him about something and then stops midsentence and stares into nothing for a couple of seconds before trying to string together her words again.

(Usually, by then, he tries to suggest that maybe she needs some rest, and she acquiesces in silence, going to her room looking vaguely defeated.)

So yes, it is entirely too possible that she actually forgot the book in there, and yes, it is _also_ entirely too possible that the thing is quite dangerous.

But Tony's looking at him with hopeful eyes, trying to get at least him to agree with his plot.

"Come on, Speedy!" He grins like a five year old in a candy store, "Aren't you a little bit curious?"

Pietro puts his palms in front of him, as if trying to distance himself from Tony: "No, no," _yes,_ he _is_ curious, but he won't tell him that, "don't pull me into this. I don't wish to be banned too."

Tony rolls his eyes at him then, "you've never even been to her office! Why do even care if you're banned from the place?"

"In Sokovia, when we're children and we're bad, they tell us stories," he explains, "you don't wash behind your ears? Wolf gets you at night. You don't eat your food? Monster eats _you_. You don't say 'please'? The witch gets angry."

Tony looks at Steve who helplessly shrugs at him.

"Uh, I mean, doubtful choices of parenting aside, that matters because...?"

"Stark, I've heard _a lot_ of angry witches," he starts, "I don't wish to anger the one I live with."

"Oh come on, what do you think she'll do? Turn you into a toad? Spank you for being a naughty boy?" and then, he smirks, " _Heh_ , I bet you'd like that one."

Pietro scowls at him, and Tony just shrugs.

"I was joking, don't take it to heart!" He simply offers.

He then starts throwing the book up and catching it, his face slightly crestfallen: "you _seriously_ don't want to know what's in here?"

"Tony," Steve can feel a migraine forming, "do whatever you want, but if she comes after your head, I won't stop her."

"If she comes after his head, I point at where he goes." Pietro mumbles.

"Pfft. I live with cowards and traitors. Okay, let's see what kind of spells this baby has!"

He realises the mistake a second too late.

He _really_ shouldn't have opened it.

Because the moment he does, a shrill scream comes from somewhere between the pages, so loud it deafens everything else. He tries to close the book, but somehow the covers force themselves open once again, and oh boy, he's pretty sure he's going to lose his hearing if this keeps up a bit longer.

"Close that thing!" Steve screams, hands over his ears, and it's a miracle Tony can hear him with the high-pitched hollering going on.

"I'm trying!" He passes the book onto the super soldier, if he can rip in half a log with his hands, then he'd probably be able to close a damn book, right?

But Steve's face turns red from trying to close it without success, and the sound isn't stopping any time soon, even when he's kneeling on the floor and Pietro's next to him, desperately trying to lend him a bit more of strength.

Pietro can feel his head painfully throbbing, and he's sure his ears will start to bleed any time now and then-

It stops.

He briefly considers if he's finally lost his hearing, but then Steve and Tony are making the same relieved face and the chances that they're all deaf at the exact same time are very slim.

Also, the book is closed now, so that must explain it.

"Did we close it?" He slowly asks Steve, but he's staring ahead, at right at the door, and-

 _Oh no._

She's with her arms crossed, hair soaked and dripping into little puddles on the floor, wrapped in a fluffy towel; and yes, she's tiny and naked and so obviously interrupted in the middle of a shower, but honest to God, Pietro can't think of any image more terrifying than the way her lip is curled into a sneer, her nostrils flaring in disgust, and staring straight at them with a certain calmness that's unnerving.

He gulps, remembering the book is still half in his hands.

He lets it go immediately, his hands in the air in surrender, and he prepares himself to talk, but Steve beats him to it:

"Stark did it!"

Ash tilts her head slightly to the side and narrows her eyes, looking at Pietro, in search of some input.

He simply nods enthusiastically at Steve's answer.

"Rats!" Tony hisses at them, but Pietro doesn't care, not when Ash turns her head so deliberately slow to look at Tony in a way that's more than just a tad violent.

That look promises pain, and he can only thank the universe it's not directed at him.

"Anthony Stark." She takes a step towards him and the millionaire takes a step back, "you absolute _child_. Why do I tell people not to touch stuff?" She's speaking slowly, calmly, and that's probably more frightening than if she'd been screaming.

"Uh," Tony fidgets, "because if they touch it someone will probably die?"

"Then why, oh why, must you insist on touching things?" Her voice gets gradually louder as she nears him, "Why, after time and time again I specifically tell you _not_ to touch things? Have you got so little self control?" When she's in front of him she grabs collar of his shirt and tugs until he's bent at her eye level, "do you have a death wish, maybe, Mr. Stark?!"

He sputters something that sounds like an apology, but she simply lets go of him and turns to face Pietro and Steve.

"Uh, we tried to- uh," the soldier rubs the back of his neck in nervousness.

"Clearly, you _didn't_. If you had, he wouldn't have toyed with things beyond his comprehension!"

She then stalks up to them and snatches the book from Steve hands with a rough movement.

"You're no better than him if you don't stop him from performing this level of stupidity," she takes turns to look at each one of them in the eye, "I am _so_ very disappointed on you," she hisses.

She then turns her head around and storms off, muttering something about an interrupted bubble bath and idiots who can't follow basic instructions.

Some sort of pressure leaves the room with her, and Tony slowly sinks to his knees.

"Okay," he runs a hand through his hair, "okay that was scary. I mean, where does all of that aggression fit inside her? Am I the only one who feels like his mom just reprimanded him?"

Steve turns towards him, eyes narrowed, "Stark, if she comes after me about this later, I'll kill you."

"Well I mean she was right, Cap, you _could_ have stopped me-"

"Tony?"

"Yes, Steve?"

"Run."

In between Tony positively running away from the room and Steve taking his time to walk after him, all Pietro can think of is that the sound might have left him with some side effects, because no one on their right mind would look at such amount of hostility contained into one single tiny person, at that threat in her eyes that promised pain to whoever crossed her, and think that yeah, while she looked like some deranged queen out for blood, she'd also looked sort of-

Beautiful.

He shakes his head, the thought out of there with the motion. Whatever that fleeting idea had been- besides _wrong_ , obviously- one thing is sure.

He needs to smooth things over with her before something _bad_ happens.

* * *

The following morning, Tony stumbles still in his underwear into the kitchen, pale and slightly peeved.

"Toads." He says. "I went to take a shower and there were actual _toads_ everywhere."

Steve groans into his coffee, "at least your reflexion doesn't hisses at you every time you walk past a mirror."

Clint hums between sips of coffee. After hearing what happened last afternoon, he couldn't be gladder he was down at the headquarters the whole day.

"Well, I mean, you _did_ anger a witch," the archer doesn't try to keep the amusement out of his voice, "I don't know what you were expecting. It could have been so much worse though."

At that moment the twins enter, both looking normal as usual, which prompts Tony to narrow his eyes at the eldest.

"What did she do to you?" He asks Pietro, wary of his carefree demeanour.

He smirks at the millionaire and shrugs, "nothing."

Steve startles in his seat at that, while Clint simply hums at his answer.

"Nothing? What, she's playing favourites now? She can't play favourites!"

While her brother shrugs, it's Wanda the one who offers an answer:

"We talk, she tells me what she likes, sometimes. If Pietro asks me what she likes, I answer him-"

"Flowers," Pietro completes, "she likes flowers."

Steve suddenly stands up, his pushing his mug aside, a resolute expression on his face, and heads towards the door.

Clint calls after him, "where are you going?"

"To buy a flower shop," he grumbles, "I can't live like this!"

* * *

As much as her life gets hectic sometimes, Aisling is fundamentally a creature of habits. She takes comfort in the little routines she creates for herself, they give her a sense of peace.

She'll hold on to whatever illusion of normalcy she can create; whatever mirage of control she elaborates over her life.

If later when she arrives in her bedroom she finds some spectre willing to pay her to finish its business for her, well, that's just the side effects of being a witch.

She's almost always on call for the strange and bloody.

But yes, Ash enjoys the little routines of her life, which is why she frowns when Wanda is twenty minutes late for their coffee outing.

Despite sharing the Tower, they don't always go together; more often than not one of the girls arrives earlier and takes their usual table by the window, and the other shows up within ten minutes afterwards.

Which is why Ash finds unacceptable a twenty-minute wait for Wanda. It's not like her anyways, and she hasn't responded the text the witch sent her, which is worrying as it is.

Maybe she had fallen asleep?

After all, she'd arrived from a mission in the late afternoon, maybe it'd be best to cancel and go back. With a sigh, Ash prepares to stand, but before she's fully able to, a silver blur and a gust of wind enters through the front door and then there's Pietro sitting comfortably in front of her.

"Hey."

"Uh," she simply manages to blink at him, "hi?"

"Wanda sends me," he explains, "she feels ill, and didn't wish to leave you alone."

Instantly, she furrows her brow. If his sister's ill, then why is he here? They're a package deal, she knows this, you can't pick one without getting the other for free.

"Just a cold, she says," he goes further into details, "no fever, but her nose is... gross."

"Runny?" Ash supplies, with a small degree of amusement.

"Yes. She says she's too ugly to go out, and she's sorry. So she sends me," he rubs the back of his neck, "I wished to stay, but she says 'no Pietro, I wish to sleep and I don't want you hovering, and Ash is waiting'," he pauses, uncertain of the next part, "she also says that I can replace her for today, if I'm not bad company?"

Ash studies him. He looks the same as usual, perhaps his hair is a bit more ruffled than she's used to- either from the running or because he didn't get to brush it, she doesn't know.

She makes routines for a reason.

She also knows that in her life it's impossible to make actual routines anyways.

And they're already here.

"I guess you'll do for today."

He smiles at her, relieved, and she can only grimace in return.

What she has with Wanda is easy, it's comfortable. She doesn't push Ash, and is more than fine with spending their time in silence if she isn't feeling particularly talkative. There are words to describe Wanda, and then there are words to describe Pietro.

She observes him, and the first one that comes to her tongue is 'blue', but that's an obvious one. The next one is the same as his sister's, 'warmth'. But while they are alike in a lot of aspects, they're also terribly different. While Wanda also makes her think of 'soft ', and 'tranquil', and 'morning', Pietro is 'hard', and 'fast', and 'night'.

There's a reason, after all, why she seeks him out after dark. She doesn't think she can get used to him in the daylight, not when he can see her clearly, when he's so awake and can reach her so easily.

As hard as it is for her, it's still much easier at night.

In the dimness of the kitchen she almost feels on his level, she can talk more openly; she simply feels at ease in the darkness.

The silence between them is so tense and so _loud_ \- he's eager, he always is, and he likes to talk, she knows this. She's sure he's keeping quiet for her sake, and she hates him a little bit for it.

Still, the longer she waits, the harder it gets for her to say anything, until someone opens a window and a current lets her take a whiff of his drink and she can _clearly_ smell chocolate and caramel _and_ vanilla.

She can't help it if she's offended by the scent; she can't help it if she wrinkles her nose in distaste and gestures towards his drink indignantly:

"What the hell is _that_?"

Pietro actually groans, and throws his hands in the air agitatedly, "I don't like things bitter!"

"Oh my God is that whipped cream? Is there even coffee in there?"

"Not everyone likes to _chew_ they're coffee!"

"No, apparently you'd rather transform it into a diabetes inducing bomb!"

"Well it tastes good."

"It's _offensive_."

"Nobody likes it the way you do."

"Barton does!"

" _Fine!"_ He switches their drinks in one swift motion.

She accepts his unspoken challenge and they raise their cups at the same time to take a big gulp- and they cringe almost instantly.

"That was not a brilliant idea," she admits while switching their drinks again.

"Terrible," he agrees.

The next silence after that is much less oppressing, she realises, even if that's the most child-like argument she's had in- well, in a long time.

* * *

He talks a lot.

She knows this, she's seen him talk with others before; he's open and playful and teasing. He's expressive, both with his eyes and his hands, and she feels a bit overwhelmed by it, but decides to say nothing.

He's not like this in the darkness, and Ash doesn't know what to think about that. Is it because it's morning? Because there are more people, more sounds around?

And sure, she knows he's friendly, he's always been friendly towards her, just not this... lively.

It makes her want to make something bleed.

"Are you still torturing Stark?"

She'd been content to let him talk that far- he'd been telling her something about... Steve doing something funny... or something. She's not the best at keeping track with conversations like that.

"Uh," is all she manages to mutter, "torturing him?"

"Punishing him?" he offers instead.

" _Oh_ ," and she snorts, because he's so innocent she could laugh, " _that_ wasn't torturing him. If I wanted to do that, trust me, it'd be much, _much_ worse."

"You made a toad appear inside his coffee."

"Child's play."

"Every time he drinked water it was red."

"Mhm."

"He says his shadow laughed at him. For two weeks."

"I needed him to learn not to touch my things," she shrugs, "if I wanted him in pain..." She trails off.

By now, Pietro can tell when he shouldn't ask things. It's when she gets that far away look, when her eyes are nothing but steel and ice, he can almost see the walls coming up, burying her, burying whatever she wants to hide.

Whatever sadness he remembers seeing in her.

He swallows, and he can't help but worry. Ash makes his sister laugh, and that makes him like her- life-saving stunts aside. He worries and it's in his concern that he forgets himself for a minute there, he forgets the conscious effort he's been making not to touch her, and he inches his hand forward just enough to brush his fingers against hers in what he hopes can be a comforting touch.

She stiffens at the contact, and he suddenly remembers.

"Sorry," he hurries to withdraw his hand, "I'm sorry, I forget that you..."he doesn't know how to finish that thought, really.

I forget that you're scared of touch? That you resent it? That somebody may have done something bad to make you feel that way but I can't know for sure?

She doesn't react in any other way than a subtle nod.

Ash can tell that he'd been especially careful about touching her, after all, she'd seen how _very_ physical he gets with most people- hugs, pats in the back and the likes- but ignoring counted times, he'd let her keep her distance, and she was so very grateful for that.

He'd been wonderful with her, actually, and she'd been... what? Something much less, she was sure.

She studies him; his hand that now lies palm-up on the table, the tendons and veins she can see just slightly raised in his arm... she knows exactly where she'd cut to drain him of his blood, or something much more painful, if she wanted to. She continues towards the curve of his shoulder- she could dislocate it without even touching him- his neck- and for a second she can see a cut forming across his throat; beads of blood starting to fall down- and then his lips- she could sew them shut with a handful of words- the straightness of his nose- she'd broke Aidan's nose one in a fit of rage, she could perfectly do the same to him- and-

His eyes.

They were ridiculous, honestly.

They made something dark and violent come forth from the depths of her estranged emotions; they made her want to stab something over and over again.

He's staring at her in confusion, she realises, completely unaware of the dark nature of her thoughts. She feels bitterer than her coffee.

"You're eyes are ridiculous," she says, because apparently she's not able to hold up proper conversation.

"My eyes?" he's more surprised than angry.

"They're too blue," she mutters.

"I... am sorry?" There's a smile in there, somewhere in his voice, "you don't like them?"

She opens her mouth to say 'no', but then she closes it again, because that's a lie. She's lied before, she lies constantly, but somehow, it seems wrong to do it right now. The next thing on her tongue is 'I really love blue', but she doesn't want to say that either; she's not ready to say something like that out loud, she doesn't know if she'll ever be ready to admit it.

In the end, she doesn't really answer, "they're too blue", she mumbles vaguely, and expects him to press the subject forward.

He doesn't.

She hates him a little bit more for it, because he _should_ be cornering her, she's speaking nonsense and being petty, but he lets her be.

The smile is somewhere in his eyes now, Ash notices, something vaguely playful and curious, and the thick waves of guilt caught her unaware.

Her moral compass it's a little bit more than slightly off. She shouldn't be feeling guilt over something this small... except it's not over just this, is it?

It's about him smiling at her and her casting her eyes downwards because she doesn't know how to smile that way. About him placing a blanket over her and her not thanking him because she got distracted with her work. About him being extra cautious not to touch her and don't really knowing why he has to do so.

This way is easier, she can rationalise it like this. He's done a lot for her and she's offered nothing in return. She owes him, and her guilt comes from not having repaid him yet.

Yes, she can manage it this way; she only has to offer something in return to balance it out.

She licks her lips, "my mother was a cold unstable poor excuse of a human being and I'm sort of happy she's dead," she winces then, because _seriously_? That's _so_ not the way a well-adjusted person starts a conversation.

"Give me a minute here, please," she can hear herself begging, "I'm... I'm trying. I'm _trying_."

And failing at it, she thinks, but Pietro, bless his soul, doesn't try to interrupt her. She hates him a little less now.

"My mother was a witch," she starts again, "a blood witch, and quite a dangerous one at that. I have no idea who my father is, my mother never talked about him. I don't know if her family disowned her or if she ran away or if they were dead, but she never talked about them either. She was a cold, paranoid, harsh woman who constantly pushed everyone away. Every couple of months we'd go to a new town or a new country. I don't even know where I was born, like, _Aidan_ couldn't find any traces of a birth certificate or anything." She waves the notion away, that's not the point, "anyways," she continues, "you know how kids copy their parents, right?" She waits for him to nod, "well, I was like, five I think, and that's the first time I draw my own blood. And apparently, I must have had a knack for witchcraft even then, because next thing I know, _bam_ , the coffee table is on fire. And my mother... she's not angry or concerned or anything, she looks at me like I'm this... this rare curious object. Now don't take me wrong, she wasn't particularly nurturing before that, but after? She made it clear that she saw me first and foremost as a witch, then, probably, as her assistant, and _way_ after that, as her daughter. She never hit me, never really raised her voice at me, but she was..."she stops there for a minute because she doesn't really knows how to describe her mother in other things than vague angry feelings of resentment and various kinds of irritated grunts.

"So, when I'm twelve, she goes up and dies. That's one certain thing about blood magic, in most cases you end up either losing your mind or dead. Or both. I remember thinking that I was going to be forever in the orphanage because who wants some witch girl, really? But you know what?" she doesn't really wait for him to answer, "I lasted three days. Three days and then this tall intimidating man appears, and he says that he has an offer for me. He can adopt me, he says, and he can teach me how to do... what I do, properly. He says that he can enrol me in the best schools, make sure I have everything I want. But he makes one thing clear: I was _not_ to be his daughter, even if we got along easy enough. I was- I _am_ \- an investment to Malcolm. I was twelve," she repeats, "I was twelve and I answered him 'well how much money do you have?'" she smiles at herself, and it's something broken and sad, "Malcolm... he ends up being much better than I hoped. He introduces me to this sense of security and stability, he makes sure I'm not hurt, hell, he's probably the reason I'm somewhat able to function in society, he puts me through college without so much as blinking at the price. But he's not an affectionate man. I don't even know if affection is in his range of emotions honestly, he's... very distant. And cold. Not bad, never bad, but I never got so much as a pat on the back from him."

Only then she raises her eyes to properly look at Pietro instead of focusing on the patterns in the wooden surface of the table.

"That's why I flinch when someone tries to touch me; I'm just... not used to it. I don't really know how to react; just... not even affection through physicality, just the concept of human touch... baffles me. It's very strange to me. And I shy away from things that I'm not used to, I guess," she takes a deep breath and looks at her folded hands, "I just wanted you to know that."

She can't manage to look at him right now, and he doesn't speak for a long time. She's never told anyone before this; with Malcolm she didn't have to, he's always had a knack for just _knowing_ things. Same with Aidan.

And the rest... well, she'd never considered anyone else important enough that they needed to know.

"Thank you," he finally tells her, "for telling me."

She raises her head at this, and finds him smiling softly at her, so very warm that she'll probably vomit once she's alone in her room once again.

* * *

She can't really focus on his words after that. He's talking to her about something, or at least, his lips are moving, but the sounds don't really reach her ears. Her thoughts are too loud, a collective mass of alarmed exclamation points inside her head.

She's focusing on him, and hopes she's at least good at pretending she can listen, but honestly? She hadn't been expecting him to just... take in what she told him without further questions. And to thank her? What for? She was just levelling the score. Once again she gets the feeling that he's far too wonderful, just the way his eyes shine while he's telling... whatever story he's telling her, and the way his hand vaguely gesticulates to accentuate his emotions-

His left hand is still on the table, she notices. It's still palm up, and she focuses on it on a different way than before. His hands are big, and look just a tiny bit calloused, and is that an offering or he's doing that without even noticing?

She 's curious, so very curious, it's a side effect for dabbling in the arcane, probably, a part of her muses.

Pietro is too distracted by his story to notice her stalling, to notice her reaching across the table with her right arm- the one that's scarred because of him, the one she still scratches until it bleeds when she's not quite thinking straight- but all of his words cease and he forgets what he's talking about when her fingers lightly brush his.

She focusing on his hand the same way she focuses when she's reading ancient languages; she's giving it her full undivided attention, her lips lightly pursed, like his hand is some problem she _needs_ to figure out.

He's so much warmer that what she thought he'd be, but his fingers are the right amount of rough she expected. She hums, it's strange, yes, and she's shy in her touching, so very cautious, but it's not unpleasant.

Perhaps because she's the one doing the reaching this time?

He watches as her eyes suddenly widen and she snaps her head up to look at him, frozen.

"I don't mind it," he's quick to say, because she honestly looks like she'll make a run for it any given moment and maybe he can tease her about it later, when she doesn't look so mortified.

Still looking into his eyes she slowly takes her hand away from his, and he has to make a conscious effort not to laugh when she's so obviously sitting on her hands.

"I don't mind it," he repeats, and she nods slowly, so very pointedly not looking at him.

This is some huge step for her, he realises. The worst thing he could do is mock her for it when he knows that's probably the hardest thing she'd ever done in her lifetime.

He's _so_ telling Wanda about this.

Not long after that, more and more people start to pile into the place, and he can see how uncomfortable Ash is with it, even more when people start recognising him. He could simply grab her and run out of there, it'd be so easy, and she'd be in her room in less than a minute, but one milestone is enough for today, he assumes.

Before going back, she goes heads to the counter and orders some honeyed tea, making him stare at the drink in confusion.

"It's for Wanda," she explains when they're crossing the street back to the Tower, "I just don't want her throat to feel sore."

And if the tea is also a 'thank you' for today, well, that's solely between Aisling and the beverage in her hands.

* * *

"Tell me something you're terrible at."

"Why would I do that, Mr. Stark?"

"Because I need to humanise you."

"What?" she stares at him, blinking slowly.

"Yeah," he continues, "like, I need something, to remind myself that you're not some omnipotent entity."

"Uh," she stalls, "singing? I'm terrible at singing."

"Oh come on, you can do much better than that!"

Ash simply shrugs helplessly, "well I mean, you don't really expect me to reveal my weaknesses just like that, right?"

"Weakness, huh? So what is it? Iron? Fire? Water? Oh please tell me it's water."

"Just go ahead and throw a whole house on me now that you're at it," she tries not to shimmy uncomfortably at the mention of iron.

"Come on! Are you afraid of clowns? Of the darkness?"

"Mr. Stark, I'm not telling you."

* * *

It's both well into spring and well past midnight, and every inhabitant of the Tower is getting some well-deserved rest.

Even Aisling, for once, decides to cut her working hours- and roaming hours- short for the night, and heads into her room _before_ two in the morning. She opens the door without paying much attention to her surroundings, rubbing her tired eyes, and heads towards the bed.

That's when she screams.

Steve reacts automatically, jumping out of bed and running towards the sound, shield in his hand. He throws the door open without second thoughts and find the twins already there- but that makes sense, they're the closest to her room anyways.

He automatically scans the room for a threat, an assailant- and finds none.

Now that he has a moment to catch his breath, he actually takes in the scene in front of him:

Wanda is standing a few feet inside the room, hands over her mouth, and she looks, rigid, taut, almost as if she's trying not to...

 _Laugh?_

Steve follows her line of vision and discovers a _very_ dishevelled and confused Pietro slowly blinking the sleep out of his eyes, and a _very_ distraught witch _clinging_ to him for dear life, her face firmly shoved into his back.

If Steve focuses, he can probably make out the muffled string of words she's muttering over and over again-

' _kill it kill it kill it kill it kill it-'_

"Is a _spider_ ," Pietro's voice is rough with sleep, his accent more prominent than usual, and he sounds... hopeless.

"I know what it is," Ash presses, "just _kill it!"_

Pietro sighs heavily, "is a _tiny_ spider. It will not hurt you."

"Ithas so many _eyes!_ That's just _unnecessary_! _"_

He sighs again, and casts a helpless look at his sister. Wanda bites her lip and takes a deep breath to avoid the giggles escaping from her mouth. She nears the wall and scoops the spider- really, it's a tiny thing- into her hands before letting it outside the open window. It scurries away, and Wanda closes the window, just in case.

"There," she says slowly at the still frightened witch, "no more spider."

Ash peeks around Pietro- who's still trying to figure out how he ended in this place, anyways- and cautiously observes her room. No more spider.

She lets go of her human shield and takes a pillow and comforter from her bed before walking towards the door, a curiously sour expression in her face.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks her when she tries to go around him.

"I'm not going to risk another one of those _things_ being somewhere around my room. I'll sleep in the living room," and then she stops right past him, and there's a light blush spreading over her neck, "uh, please don't tell Mr. Stark about this?"

She stalks off then, and Steve looks back at the twins, at a loss of what to do now.

"What," he licks his lips, "what was that?"

Wanda shrugs with a grimace, "spiders scare her, I think?"

Steve nods slowly. Well... now that that's dealt with, "okay, so back to bed?"

Pietro doesn't need any more than that to head back to his own room and collapse in his bed. He isn't very good with sudden wake up calls.

The next morning, he wakes up to the smell of vanilla and spice, and he discovers a small plate of still warm cookies on his nightstand, with a note folded neatly on top. He knows the flowery handwriting by now, and only has to try a little to read the first two crossed over sentences: ' _sorry for waking you up',_ and then, ' _sorry for squeezing the life out of you'_ , but apparently, neither of those were good enough for her, because she ended up deciding to write a much more simple ' _sorry'_ , and leave it at that.

After taking the first bite of a cookie, Pietro muses that he _definitely_ doesn't mind being used as a human shield against arachnids if that means he gets these cookies afterwards.

* * *

"Spiders?"

"Mr. Stark-"

" _Spiders?"_

" _Yes_. Spiders. They creep me out."

"But, but you're a _witch_!"

"Thanks for noticing."

"I mean, shouldn't you be used to like, spiders and snakes and all that jazz?"

"What," she bristles, "you think that just because I'm experienced in magic I somehow conveniently attract a mob of rats and newts and black cats at all times? I'm not an animal."

"Well, that's a good point, but... _spiders?"_

"They have too many eyes they freak me out okay?!"

* * *

 **anyone's wondering, Pietro gave her white tulips, which are a symbol of forgiveness. Steve just picked a couple of every kind of flower from the nearest shop and had them delivered to the Tower to be safe. That's probably my favourite off-scene happenstance, and if I could pick any part of this story to be illustrated, I'd pick that one.**

 **case you didn't get the thing about Ed, just listen to "Thinking Out Loud" and pay attention to the lyrics. There's a line in there that has to do with the chapter.**


	8. Chapter 8

**1-Dragon Age: Inquisition is ruining my life and I love it.**

 **2-This chapter is big as it is, it was going to be HUGE at over 8000 words I had to put a stop somewhere, so I broke it in half. Sort of.**

 **2- I'm halfway revising chapters 1-4, and I'll probably finish that by the end of next week.**

 **3-I made a little drawing for the cover of this story, as you can see it's pretty minimalistic and to the point- and I tried to keep Ash's facial sort of vaguish because after a conversation with the lovely FormofJane I realised that I want you to:**

 **4-Tell me any (or all) of your headcanons about Ash-if you've got any-, especially how you think she looks like, if she looks like any actress or model or whatever. I'd seriously LOVE to hear that.**

 **5-Thank you guys for all your follows, favourites and reviews. You rock and I love you.**

* * *

 **Chapter VII**

 **Overtime**

 **(In which our favourite witch's moral compass is broken and she doesn't care.)**

* * *

"Magic doesn't work like that," she answers Clint.

Rising an eyebrow, the archer takes a sip of his coffee, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Ash simply keeps munching on her sandwich, eyes scanning the New York Times hungrily.

"How, then?"

"How what?"

Clint sighs. She's been distracted the past few days, and it was evident to everyone. Sometimes she'd stop talking mid-sentence with her mouth hanging half-open and space out for a minute or two, or walk into a room only to stop in her tracks and blink in confusion when she didn't remember why she had entered in the first place.

The half-circles under her eyes are getting so dark the archer sometimes wonders if she sleeps at all.

He briefly entertains the notion of ignoring her state of mind, but as Natasha had wisely muttered the last night when Aisling had to knock some sort of poisonous drink from Steve's hand- drink she had accidentally left inside the fridge where it could be confused with orange juice-, _'a distracted witch is a dangerous one.'_

"How does magic- nevermind," Clint puts a firm hand on top of the newspaper, covering whatever she's reading.

Snapping out of her stupor, she blinks slowly, her eyes finding his in a mute question.

"Yes, Clint?" The irritation in her voice is only silenced by the sheer tiredness of it.

"Is everything alright?" He removes his hand from the Times, and only vaguely notices she was reading the obituaries.

"Shouldn't it be?" Ash counters.

"You've been..." He struggles to find the word, "unfocused, lately."

She blinks again, slowly, and takes a hand to her temple, massaging there with nimble fingers. He's right, she knows it.

"Maybe I've been sleeping less than usual," she manages to mumble.

"Why?"

It's an innocent enough question, but it's also a very complicated one. She knows what he's after; he's asking if she has nightmares too, if night terrors are keeping her awake at night.

Her Nightmares are the least of her problems, but that's too complicated to explain.

The truth is even more complicated, she realises, because she's been trying to add most afternoons to her usual early mornings and late nights with the twins and she's completely fucked up her sleeping schedule, resigning herself to take several naps during the day in between her job.

And she's not telling the archer that.

"I've..." She trails off. Licking her lips, she tries again, "I'm used to sleeping most day and being awake most night. Maybe, lately... I've been unconsciously trying to keep up with the lot of you? And I'm sleeping less, I think."

Clint nods at her once. Stealing a glance at his phone, he notices it's half past seven and time for him to head down to the headquarters before Steve says anything about punctuality- and Pietro snickers and calls him an old man. Again.

"Go to sleep," He says.

"What?"

"Go to sleep," he repeats.

She cocks her head slightly to the left and narrows her eyes at him, but the effect is lost when she has to stifle a yawn.

"You _do_ realise that I have three children," he idly comments, "which means plenty of experience with bedtimes. Don't think I'm above physically dragging you there, because I'm not."

He can see the way she stills briefly, and yeah, maybe it's a bit of a low blow, he knows how she is with the whole touching thing, but he needs to go and this needs to be addressed.

Clint can tell she's weighing her options, her lower lip just barely jutting out and her brow creased.

"Fine," she ends up saying, "I guess I could sleep a good six hours or so."

"Make that ten just to be sure."

She rolls her eyes at him. Seriously, nobody had tried to order her to bed before in her life, it's weird to start at adulthood. But she understands the logic behind his command, anyways.

"Fine, fine. Ten hours," she acquiesces before standing up.

"That's a good young lady."

* * *

Wanda stops to catch her breath for a moment, hands on her knees. If at first she had thought her training would only focus on her abilities, she'd been instantly proved wrong by a very stern Black Widow. The woman had put her through metaphorical hell with their sparring sessions- in which Wanda's powers were strictly forbidden. More often than not she'd ended sprawled on the floor, bruised and battered, but she was surely getting better.

Not enough to disarm and subdue Natasha only with her hand-to-hand skills, but at least she could hold her own now.

That doesn't mean the older is any more lenient on her training.

"Good job," Natasha says, running a hand through her hair, "you're definitely getting there. Now if somehow you can't use your powers, at least you can stand your own until reinforcements arrive."

That's not very reassuring, Wanda thinks, but that's probably as good as she'll get from the redhead, and she's going to take it.

"Thanks," she accepts the water bottle handed to her and drinks hungrily.

After stretching, they head towards the outside running track were they know more agents are working out. Natasha says she needs to supervise the new recruits, and Wanda doesn't have to say she's going to see her brother.

"You really think I'm better?" Wanda asks, knowing Natasha doesn't give false praise, but curious nevertheless.

"You don't end up face-first on the floor in the first two minutes anymore," there's a smirk in both her lips and her voice, "so that's progress in my book."

Wanda snorts, and then shields her eyes against the sudden sunlight that blinds her for a moment. When her eyesight adjusts, her eyes automatically look for the silverish blur on the track, and then, almost naturally, to the head of white waves lounging on the bleachers, staring at the agents on the track with complete focus.

"Ash is here?"

"Right," Natasha says, "Fury said she was going to be here all day, working on something too big to take to the Tower."

Wanda glances at the agent, at her barely stiffened posture, the way her quick eyes zeroed on the girl in question instantly, the carefully neutral tone of her voice...

Thinking about it, Natasha is definitely the most distant when it comes to the witch. Wanda nearly slaps herself for not noticing earlier.

"You dislike her?" And yeah, maybe Wanda's being too forward, but she can't help herself.

Natasha looks at her with that Look she has when she's scrutinising people and evaluating their level of threat.

"She's alright," there's not a single drop of affection in her voice.

"But you don't trust her."

"She's dangerous."

"So am I," and then, without missing a beat, "so are _you_."

Natasha sighs.

"You think she'd stick with us if we stopped paying her?"

Wanda thinks it over, and then concedes: "No."

"And what if someone offers her even more money to work against us?"

"She'd not take it."

"Why?"

"Because-"Wanda stops, and then continues softly, "because she wins nothing with that." At Natasha's questioning look, she elaborates: "She doesn't care about good or about bad or about the general wellbeing of the world, this is true. And she has hurt many people, deceived many people, probably killed people too, this is also true. She's only done this when she wins something, because she's very selfish."

Natasha raises an eyebrow at her explanation.

"You're actually proving my argument right now."

But Wanda shakes her head with a smile; having a hard time putting her thoughts into words.

"No, no," she continues, "she's very selfish, _that's_ why she'll not do anything to hurt us."

Afterwards, Natasha keeps turning that thought around in her head, but she doesn't can't find any conclusion that fully satisfies her.

* * *

Ash notices the moment Wanda sits down next to her, but she says nothing for a while. Her eyes are still flitting from person to person, the call from Fury being the perfect excuse to watch the people in the facilities for a while without being questioned about it.

So far, she had nothing, but she'd woken up with a feeling of _something_ that was just barely outside of her reach-

"What are you doing here?"

She can hear the smile in Wanda's voice, and Ash doesn't even look at her when she answers:

"Oh, it has _nothing_ to do with the lot of attractive people in tight clothes and top physique working out right in front of my eyes, that's for sure."

It's not a lie, not technically, but the only other available answer she's got is 'I'm hunting for a snake' and that's probably not the best choice.

Wanda snorts and re-ties her hair into the high ponytail she'd been wearing all morning. Ash can completely hear the amusement in her voice when she says casually, _too_ casually:

"And my brother is one of these attractive people?"

She can tell Ash wasn't expecting that question by the way she almost manages to fall from her seat in surprise. She rightens herself instantly, and her eyes automatically go to the man in question who's currently taking a small break, pouring half a bottle of water over his head and then running his fingers through his tangled hair.

The witch then looks back at Wanda; her eyebrows raised high in a comical confused expression.

"I'm joking," Wanda says, the smile still in her lips.

"Oh," Ash licks her lips and then she toys with a strand of her hair, and Wanda can't help but notice again the sheer volume of it.

It's only spring, but it's nearing noon and the sunlight it's quite warm...

"You're hot?" At the witch's half amused half questioning expression, she clarifies, "your hair. Does it not make you too hot?"

"A bit," she concedes, "but I don't mind too much. I didn't bring a hair tie anyways."

"I have an extra one," Wanda offers, "I could braid it for you?"

Before, she would have refused, she knows. Before, she would've been more than baffled at the idea. But Wanda makes it _so_ easy for her to lower her guard and just let the girl past all of her defences. She's like spring, like falling asleep in fresh grass under the sun, like the smell of vanilla and cinnamon.

She makes the word 'home' rise up from her throat and invade her mouth.

Ash doesn't have to overthink it really, so she simply angles her body away from Wanda so that she can set to work.

It's nice, she notices, the careful way she first combs her fingers through her snowy locks, making sure there's no knots and never tugging. She's seen her do this to her brother before, and now Ash understands the downright blissful expression he had on his face during those times.

Wanda braids her hair with a smile; it's nice to have another girl around to do these simple things with. As much as she likes Natasha and gets along with her, she can't picture the-u _sually to serious_ \- woman letting her do this.

"Be still," she tuts for the fourth time, "I swear you're almost as bad as Pietro."

"I'm _not_ -"

"Be _still_."

She doesn't argue back, but from time to time she keeps moving her head, barely, almost like a twitch. Wanda knows this may be hard for her, hard and alien and perhaps even slightly uncomfortable; and then she realises that probably no one combed her hair for her before, that this might be the first time.

Well, not that she knows it for certain, but with the way Ash talks about her mother and the overall imposing figure of Malcolm Delacroix, Wanda can't picture any of them tying a little Aisling's hair for her.

She tells her, sometimes, a bit of what's she's currently working on, so Wanda doesn't get very surprised when the witch conversationally says:

"Fury wanted me to take a look at a mirror they found."

"Yes?"

"Mhm," she twitches again, her head barely turning to the right, "huge thing. Old, cracked, ancient markings on the frame. Probably super dangerous and very stupid to keep around."

"You're going to say they destroy it."

"Don't I always?" Wanda can hear the smile in her voice, "but I should keep working on it for a while still."

Tying the end of her hair- with a bright red scrunchie, of course- Wanda oversees her work, making sure there's not a single strand of stray hair out of place. She nods to herself, pleased when everything looks just right.

"Thanks," Ash fingers her braid, almost distractedly. Wanda notices that even after she's distanced herself a little, the witch still twitches a bit, her head turning slightly to the right again with the motion, "I should probably go back to work though. Sorry."

"It's okay," she shrugs, "I'll see you later at the Tower, yes?"

"Well, we _do_ live together," Ash smiles softly, and then excuses herself and leaves, braid trailing after her.

Wanda stays in the bleachers, distractedly looking at the people in front of her, her eyes naturally looking for her brother every time he stops. Every handful of laps- she can't tell how many exactly, might as well be twenty or a hundred- he stops at vaguely the same spot to her left to catch his breath briefly before starting again. She's in the middle of waving at him once he finally notices her there, when it hits her like a ton of bricks:

Ash hadn't been _twitching_.

And she has to wave off the concerned expression Pietro shoots at her when she freezes midwave with the realisation that from the spot the witch had been sitting she'd only need to _barely_ angle her head to the right every couple of seconds to...

Wanda opens her mouth and the closes it, the thought still half formed.

She'd been stealing glances at him every time he stopped.

It's probably nothing, anyways, there is a _huge_ chance Ash had been conditioned after her earlier joke- and honest to God she _had_ been just joking before- and she'd simply became very aware of his presence or something of the sorts.

Then again, even if it had been a joke, Wanda also realises that Ash didn't tell her 'no' when she asked.

It is nothing. It _has_ to be nothing, a coincidence, a fluke. The witch and her brother were friends of course, she knows this.

Then again... She can't help but wonder...

What _if?_

* * *

It takes her more than she'd like, and by the end of it she's both hungry and irritable. There's a reason she specifically asked to work from the relative solitude of the Tower; there, nobody really enters her office- except for Tony, but that's handled anyways-, there, nobody asks a thousand stupid questions, there, no ridiculous agents and so-called-scientists question her methods or knowledge.

There, people actually get when she's at the end of her patience and feels like murdering a small country.

If these guy, this... Doctor-what's-his-name didn't insist on personally overseeing her work and question every one of her credentials and- the _nerve_ \- her judgement on destroying the damn mirror, she'd ended her job much sooner.

Worse, he kept hammering her with queries about what did it _do_ exactly and she ended up at her wit's end trying to answer vaguely enough while still satisfying his curiosity.

He wouldn't believe her if she'd said 'oh, it's just an interdimensional door that pierces our reality and allows demons to pass through' anyways.

And when he'd asked if maybe they could use it as a weapon against whatever threat arose, she actually had to physically restrain herself from turning around and slapping the guy.

She's fuming and stomping through the halls of the facility and glaring at anyone who dares to look her way- a lot of agents do- and maybe in her right mind she'd pay more attention to what she's doing, but angry as she is she turns around the corner of some nondescript hallway too fast and she ends up colliding with a rock-hard chest with enough force to launch her backwards until she loses her footing and falls on her butt.

She cradles her nose with her hand, trying to dull the pain of the collision, with her eyes tightly shut. She doesn't have to look to know who's in front of her.

She feels the migraine coming soon.

When she finally opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is a hand offered, and then an arm, a shoulder, until her eyes arrive to Steve's concerned face. She eyes the hand once again, debating, but politely refuses it and stands on her own.

"You alright there?" The soldier asks.

She shrugs, for the first time realising he's not alone; there's a dark-skinned man next to him, eying her in curiosity.

"You're like a brick wall," when Steve's brow creases in confusion she adds, "I don't mean it as a compliment."

This causes the other man to laugh, and it's open and friendly and it makes her scrunch up her nose.

"Oh, right, this is Sam Wilson," Steve hurries to introduce, "also known as the Falcon; and this is Aisling-"

" _Ash,"_ she corrects.

"Ash," Steve concedes, "she's-" _a witch_ , he's about to say, but stops himself because he realises that outside the Tower residents, and Fury, he doesn't really knows how much clearance the others have to know about her status.

"She's...?" Sam eggs him on.

"Oh, I can think of a lot of adjectives to follow that," Ash casually interjects, "most of them are not nice at all. I think the Captain is trying to say I'm a consultant linguist, but that's a bit of a mouthful."

She glares at Steve meaningfully, and he imperceptibly nods. Right.

"That's it," he says, "consultant linguist. I always forget the words."

Sam offers her a hand and she looks at it with her eyes narrowed first. But her day has been stressful enough already, so she simply chooses to shake it anyways, and smile so very pleasantly at him.

"Well then, nice to meet you, Ash."

"Likewise."

Steve looks at the exchange in curiosity. She refuses casual touches, he knows it, but she doesn't seem to have much of an issue with anything that seems business-like.

Or if anyone's bleeding out on her.

"So," Sam folds his arms, "what _does_ a consultant linguist do?"

"Ah..." Ash gestures vaguely at unseen words in the air, "translate things, mostly. Old texts, symbology, things like that."

And occasionally vomit blood and hex people, Steve can't help but think.

"Wait, wait, you're the one Fury's been sending the weird things we find?"

"Yep."

"When he speaks about sending things to 'Miss Datura'... I pictured you being..."

"Taller?" She shoots him a lopsided smile.

"Probably," he smiles back, "but also older. Like a college professor or something... How old _are_ you, nineteen?"

She's putting on that smile, that perfectly pleasant smile that augurs a potential storm in the making, and Steve takes a step back, just in case. He doesn't want his reflection to hiss at him every time he passes through a window or mirror ever again.

" _Twenty three,"_ she forces out.

"That's still young," he presses, "it's pretty incredible."

"Well, _Mr. Wilson_ , I'm _very_ smart, so."

"Humble too," she can see there's no ill intent in his voice, but her patience has been tested over and over again this day.

She snaps.

"Oh, sorry, I'm _very_ good at what I do, actually," she crosses her arms, "why should I _pretend_ I'm not?"

There's a second of silence in which she asks herself if she's gone too far, if there was too much disdain in her voice; but then he outright laughs, one hand on his belly.

Ash looks at Steve for guidance, but he only rolls her eyes at his friend's behaviour.

"Man, I like this girl," Sam says to no-one in particular, "anyways, gotta run, but it's been really nice to meet you."

After he excuses himself- and promises Steve to beat him next time at the track- she's left staring at his retreating form.

"He's weird," she states.

The soldier next to her snorts, "says the woman who slits her wrists and talks in tongues in her sleep," and then, without missing a beat, "you fell asleep on the couch last week, remember?"

She furrows her brow, okay, so he _has_ a point there. And come to think of it, she remembers being sprawled on the living room, tired and her eyes closing... But, she realises, she'd woken up in her bed.

"You carried me to my room," it's not a question, not really, when he fidgets uneasily under her scrutiny.

"Yeah, I mean, your neck was in a weird position and all. Sorry, I know you don't like being touched."

"It's alright," she says quickly, the notion of it it's odd, yes, nobody has ever done that for her before.

If she fell asleep in the kitchen when she was thirteen, she'd wake up in the kitchen in the same position. Malcolm said it was good for her to learn from her mistakes- a pained neck all day.

So it's weird, yeah, but it's such a _Steve_ thing to do that she can't be mad at him, not for long. He's too good for her to be angry at.

(Sometimes, he's _so_ good that she just hates him for it.)

"Thanks," she says later, because she assumes that's what you say when someone does something nice like that, "and sorry for causing you trouble."

"Trouble? You barely weight anything," he smiles," oh, and I made sure not to touch anything in your room. Though I think something _hissed_ at me when I entered."

"Probably," she concedes, "sometimes I don't think I know what's in my room anymo-"

A carried voice cuts her short, and both Steve and her turn around towards the sound in confusion. She knows the heavy accent well enough by know, but she's never heard it so... _angry_.

"What's going on over there?" She asks Steve, because if someone knows what happens around S.H.I.E.L.D. then that's probably him.

"I'm not sure," he answers, "but I think we should find out."

She nods and follows him, half curious and half concerned.

Even if he hadn't been nearly shouting, Ash recognises a conflict when she sees one, even more one like this where electricity charges the air. He's tense, his face contorting with anger, wildly gesturing with his hands to emphasise whatever he's saying.

Wanda's behind him, and Ash realises she's trying to make herself smaller, one hand attached to the hem of Pietro's shirt, trying in vain to calm him down or get his attention or maybe both.

Opposite to them, Fury's frowning, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, and next to him, Natasha wears a carefully blank expression, the corner of her lips barely twitching.

Steve doesn't loses time and tries to defuse the situation right away, Ash following him close by.

"Hey, hey," the soldier says, his hands in front of him, "is everything alright?"

The first one to react is Pietro, who turns his head sharply towards him, "tell them to back off!"

Steve looks at Natasha in question, but she only shakes her head.

Why can't things ever be done the easy way?

"Remember the HYDRA member we captured last week?" Fury asks.

Steve nods, still unsure if that has anything to do with the current situation, "the one who wasn't cooperating with the questioning?"

"The same. We've tried some more... intense methods" he gestures towards Natasha here, and Steve frowns in disapproval, "but the guy still won't say anything. Rogers, we _need_ the intel."

Steve connects the dots easily.

"You want Wanda to look inside his head," he concludes.

"She doesn't _want to!"_ Pietro nearly shouts.

Steve sighs. This has been a topic of discussion time and time again, the first time they brought up the possibility of using her as a method for easier questioning, Pietro nearly punched Fury in the mouth- Steve had to bodily stop him from doing so. Apparently, after everything that had happened, the battle of Sokovia, Wanda had been more than a little reticent to use her mind control powers like that again.

'It's not like reading a book' she'd explained, 'I have to... invade everything.'

The thought of causing something like she'd caused Banner, like she'd caused _them_ , to another living breathing person again upset her. Steve could sympathise with that, with that simple want to _not_ hurt people.

He also knows they _really_ need the intel, no matter how much he disapproves torturing someone.

"It's been nearly a year," Natasha simply states.

"So _what?"_ The eldest twin defies her.

"Rogers," Fury interrupts, "your input on this?"

Steve scratches his neck, mindful of the glare Pietro is placing on him. Before he could say anything, however, Wanda interrupts with a small voice, still half hiding behind her brother.

"If there's no other way..." Steve can clearly see the sadness, and maybe the small twinge of fear in her eyes.

He doesn't want to cause the girl any pain- no more pain than she'd been in, at least- but this is also important.

" _No_." Pietro says firmly, looking at her over his shoulder, "you wish to start with the nightmares again?"

"But brother, I..."

" _No."_

"Pietro, if she agrees, you _have_ to let her-" Fury starts.

"Well, she _obviously_ doesn't want to do it, so..."

Fury closes his eyes tightly. Of course. Of course the witch has been standing there, dwarfed by Steve's height, silent and forgotten.

And _of course_ that she is going to interrupt him and antagonise him, because that's what she does, apparently.

"This doesn't concern you," Natasha shoots at her, berating at Steve with her eyes for allowing her to even get into this conversation.

"No, of course it doesn't, this is not my area at all. But she doesn't want to do it. She doesn't have to," she shrugs

Fury sighs again while Natasha stiffens her stance. Ash ignores the curious yet troubled way Steve is looking at her, and the incredible amount of gratefulness Pietro shoots in her direction. She zeroes in Wanda instead, who's looking at her strangely, torn between thankful and upset.

"Do you _want_ to do this, yes or no?" Ash asks the girl.

"...No," it's so quiet the way she says it that it just breaks the witch's heart a little.

She shouldn't meddle like this, really, Natasha had been right when she'd told her this was none of her concern. But she honestly doesn't want to see Wanda like this, she's nice, she's _good_. Her resolve strengthens.

"Then I can do it," she smiles brightly at Fury.

"What," Natasha furrows her brow, "can you read minds now?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure I can make this guy talk," she shrugs, and lowers her voice "he's probably been trained to expect whatever methods you used. I seriously doubt he's been trained to expect blood magic."

Natasha nods once. That makes sense, and if she can make him talk, she doesn't really care about what sort of methods she uses.

"They're asking you to _torture_ a guy," Steve says, the troubled expression still on his face.

"Yes, I know."

It's her nonchalance about it that makes him feel uncomfortable. He can see that Natasha takes no pleasure when she has to do the same, that it's just her duty and her job and she'll do it. He's seen before the way she takes a deep breath to steel herself every time she has to do this.

But Ash... Ash seems completely unbothered by the notion of torture. She's done it before, he realises, and she doesn't really seem to care about it.

The twins still stare at her.

"Are you certain?" Wanda asks.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," she shrugs again, "what's one more dark action in the downwards spiral that's my morality anyways?"

Pietro catches her eye and has to stop himself from dragging her forward and into a hug. She doesn't care for this, and it's not part of her job. She's doing this solely for his sister, he knows, and he should say something, but all words seem more than inadequate in his mouth.

He tries to smile at her instead, but it comes out more like a grimace.

"Fine," Fury says, "fine, that works for me."

"Just let me get a few things and I'll start," and then, "and I'm sure you realise this means overtime hours, right?"

* * *

She refuses to know his name or background. 'Don't need it, don't care', it's all she says about it. So after asking around for a candle- 'any colour, it doesn't matter'- a lighter, a needle, a glass- they hand her a blue plastic cup, but it'll do- and a plate with ice, she enters the interrogation room.

She briefly notices the two-way mirror at her left and knows that at least Fury and Natasha are looking. Steve too, probably.

And the twins may be curious enough.

She sits on a metal chair; there's a table of the same material in front of her, and a man handcuffed to the chair opposite to her. He appears to be in his early thirties, with greasy blond hair falling in front of his eyes and a stubborn expression.

And a black eye and busted lip.

Ash notices a pitcher of water and another plastic cup on the table, right out of the man's reach-another attempt at making him talk, probably.

"Want some water?" She offers.

"Fuck off," there's an accent there, but she can't identify it.

"I'm being nice, you know," she sighs, "I mean, in about a minute I'm going to cause you a great deal of pain, so..."

When he glares at her, she simply rolls her eyes and fills the cup with water. She then stands up and walks up to him, pressing it to his lips. He glares at her still, but he also drinks the water greedily, and then she sits down again.

"I'd advise you to talk now," she says conversationally, "It'd probably be best for you."

"Go to hell."

"Eh," she shrugs, "been there, didn't like it much. Now, I'd say I'm sorry, but I don't really care either way."

She pricks the skin of his arm until the needle is stained red. She doesn't need much, doesn't even need to cut herself for this, it's all so simple, really.

A binding word slithers through her lips, and then she lets the needle fall into the melting ice.

It doesn't take much time before he visibly starts to shiver violently, his teeth clattering loudly. His eyes are open in surprise, and his lips quickly take a blue tinge.

"I'm freezing your blood," she comments, "won't be long until you're pretty much a popsicle."

Then she fetches the needle and makes sure it's still bloodied before blowing gently on it. He stops shivering almost instantly.

"Still not talking?"

He doesn't reply, but looks slightly spooked by her little display. So he had definitely _not_ been trained to expect magic.

With another sigh- she could be doing better things with her time, honestly- she lights the candle then, and puts the needle near the flame.

The man in front of her starts to sweat in a matter of minutes, his face reddening with heat. She turns the needle slowly, taking turns in bringing it impossibly close to the flame and then moving it away in an easy rhythm. He's fidgeting in his chair, and she can start to see the small gleam of fear in his eyes.

At the other side of the mirror, the five figures look at her work with different levels of unsettling.

"What's that smell?" Pietro asks.

"Burnt hair," Natasha answers him, "she's- she's cooking him up from the inside..."

And she looks so perfectly bored doing so.

"No?" Ash asks the man, blowing on the candle, "what I'm gonna do next is _way_ worse. You really should talk."

He opens his mouth, breathing hard... and then he closes it again.

"Alright," she says nonchalantly.

Ash puts the blue cup right in front of her then, and takes her dagger from the concealed spot between the folds of her dress. This is strictly blood magic now, and it's a little bit more complicated than the easy bindings she's been doing until now. She carves a tiny sigil on her left arm and then takes a deep breath, willing her magic to flow through her and start siphoning.

The cup slowly but surely starts to fill, the dark liquid filling the room with a metallic scent until it's overflowing and red droplets start to fall into the table's surface. His lips are starting to pale.

"You do realise I'm exsanguinating you right now," she rests her cheek on her palm, "and I barely had to touch you."

She can see he's almost there; he only needs a little push further, just to make him topple over the edge. It's understandable though, when someone's draining your own blood in front of your eyes without even touching your skin.

So then she channels the small flair for the dramatics she's inherited from Aidan, no doubt, and takes the cup in her hand, smiling brightly at the man and ignoring the way his blood splashes around her hand.

"Cheers," she says, and takes the cup to her lips.

She takes a big gulp. She's used to the taste of blood in her mouth and down her throat so that it's not the most uncomfortable sensation in the world. Another big gulp, and she vaguely notices some of it dribbling down her chin. A third gulp-

"I'll talk," he says, pale and slightly swaying.

Ash puts the cup down and distractedly passes the back of her hand over her mouth, managing to smudge his blood around her lips.

She looks towards the mirror, where she knows they're watching her, and nods silently.

Before she fully leaves the room, she can hear the man mutter:

"Just don't come back."

"What's that?" She mumbles to herself, "Greek?"

* * *

"You just drank that guy's blood?" Steve nearly screams in her face.

She winces at his tone, "for dramatic effect and I didn't enjoy it."

"You just drank some guy's blood," he says again, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes."

"You're crazy."

She smiles at him then, "probably, yeah. That's like a requirement for blood magic."

He shakes his head then and enters the room after Fury and Natasha. Ash turns in the hallway then, and looks at the twins. Pietro's fidgeting, unsure of what to do, but Wanda surges forward, taking the witch's hands in her.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're thanking me for draining a man's blood and drinking it?" There's a smile in there, but it's covered by red smears and metallic scent.

"You did that for me, did you not?"

"I..." She looks at Pietro briefly, and then at the floor, "I don't know," she shrugs, "you're too nice to torture some guy and my soul's already pretty blackened anyways so it seemed-" _the right thing to do_ "logical, I guess."

Whatever else Wanda's going to say gets drowned by a heart-wrenching scream echoing down the halls. They look at each other briefly, in different states of confusion before Steve storms out of the room, Natasha and Fury hot on his trail.

Steve's barking orders soon enough, and they all run towards the scream- Pietro's gone in a matter of seconds with his sister in his arms-, but not before the soldier looks back at Ash and firmly tells her:

"Stay _here_."

She's not fighter, really. Whatever's going on isn't her business, and even if it was, she'd probably wouldn't be able to help. She's not fast, or strong, or a very good tactician, or any of the things that help in the heat of battle; whatever things she can do are usually from a stationary position, in tranquillity, where she can properly focus.

Another scream joins the first one, and then another, and another.

She whistles between her teeth, whatever's going on is pretty serious, huh. They should be fine though, they're superheroes after all. And the ones who aren't are highly trained agents. And the scientists are probably out of the way and safe.

 _Probably_.

A deep laughter resonates within the walls, and it's hollow and all so very unnerving, and that's when she actually slaps a hand to her forehead.

One simple order. _One._

She'd told them not to touch the stupid mirror!

* * *

She arrives midbattle, apparently, although to her it's less of a battle and more of a massacre, really. Right there, in the middle of the room, the cracked mirror- she should have just _smashed it_ when she had the chance- all turned black, and the nightmarish sight of that one annoying scientist-Doctor Patil, she suddenly remembers- with his eyes all black and mouth outstretched in an unholy smile.

She curses again. He even managed to get himself possessed.

Around him there's a trail of bodies in different states of carnage- if they are fast enough maybe they can save two or three persons that still seem to be breathing- and part of the Avengers team, trying to take him down.

Fuelled by the demonic presence, the once-harmless man ignores every punch thrown at him, going as far as using Steve's weight against him to smash him against a wall, far away from his shield.

Whatever bullets wounds they manage to inflict seem to heal right away.

 _Great._

They _are_ superheroes though, and if she leaves them alone they can probably manage to kill the guy and then whatever demon's inside him will probably just smoke away through the mirror again. This is S.H.I.E.L.D. anyways, and she's not particularly concerned about how many agents manage to get themselves killed with this. Besides, Dr. Patil sort of deserves this, doesn't he? After submitting her to the most stressful day she's had in a while, and going _directly_ against one simple instruction to cause all this chaos, she can bet that if the world has even _one_ ounce of justice, he'll die for what he's done.

She limits to watch from the sidelines, from the doorframe, rationalising that she doesn't really need to help, not really, trying to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

(God, but she _is_ getting _soft_.)

Ash almost succeeds on turning around and walking away, _almost_ , but then the _creature_ focuses on Pietro and even with his speed, he needs to stop and breath after a while, and that's when he _very narrowly_ avoids getting his neck snapped, scurrying away at the last moment.

She's moving before she realises she's done so, because apparently, the universe, God, Allah, karma or whatever power rules over her doesn't want the witch thinking straight when it comes to Pietro, and carves an intricate glyph on the back of her right hand in record time.

As soon as she crosses the threshold, she knows the black eyes are focusing solely on her. She's a beacon for these kind of things, she knows it. Whatever forces are pulsing inside her probably shine in his eyes like some sort of fire the demon is attracted too.

Dr. Patil licks his lips hungrily and then his mouth opens like a snake's, and black smoke's pouring out of it and travelling in the air right towards her at inhuman speed, and well, honestly? She's scared, because she's never tried this before, she doesn't know if this will work, if this _can_ work, but she's got a better chance at least than any other here.

Then again, if she fails, the consequences _will_ be much more devastating than if it was anyone else.

Besides, she could very well die. She's as mortal as any other.

Refusing to close her eyes, she steels herself for the impact-

But there's none, and she's half-pressed against the wall on the other side of the room, a strong body between her and danger.

This vaguely feels like some sort of déjà-vu, except last time it was a train and not a demon.

"You _need_ to leave," Pietro's out of breath and his eyes are worried and determinate at the same time, and she suppresses the urge to either roll her eyes or fix the hair that keeps falling on his face.

She pushes against his chest instead.

"That's a demon, so this is _sort of_ my department," she says, and notices the smoke has taken shape of something vaguely humanoid and wholly enraged, "I have a plan."

He looks at her as if she's lost her mind- and if he'd asker, she'd say that _yes, definitely_ \- and shakes his head.

She understands now why Wanda gets so frustrated sometimes with the protective streak he's got.

"Trust me," she presses, " _please_."

Against his better judgement he lets her go, and she shoots him a grateful nod.

Okay, time to see if she could do this.

Or, time to die. Whatever.

He runs back to the fight and she nervously walks after him; once she's close enough, the demon turns back to her again, and she gulps, refusing to look at the glyph on her hand for fear of tipping it off.

The smoke down her throat is coarse and bitter and it brings tears to her eyes. The world ceases to exist then, and she's only living inside her mind, in the battle for dominance over her body- and in an extent, for her potential for destruction.

' _Let go'_ a voice whispers inside her, _'let go, stop fighting_ ', it's velvety and sickly sweet poison and she's half tempted to listen to it, but she's nothing if not sheer stubborn at times, and right now? Right now it's one of those times.

She fights back against it, against the presence inside her head, and maybe the demon had been looking for an easier prey, because then it tries to leave her, and that's when the Seal of Solomon she's carved on her hand starts to burn a cold fire in her skin. The creature tries to push past it, break it, bend it to its will but it won't budge and the demon rages inside her, trapped within the confines of herself.

It battles against her, trying to control her, and before she knows it her hand is raised, a sharp shard of nondescript metal in her hand, the edge facing her hand- and the Seal. She fights it, but nevertheless her arm moves against her will, going so far as to prick her own skin and she's sure she's failed then, the demon is going to free itself and there's nothing she can do about it-

A voice rings inside her head then, a voice different than the demon's or her own conscience. She knows this voice, she's heard it before, but she's not sure whose voice is it, only that it berates her, clear as sunrise:

' _Stop being so scared and just start getting angry!"_

The voice is right, the part of her that's somewhat still in her right mind knows. This is a demon, for God's sake! This is one of the creatures she's used to bind in contracts, she's used to help regulate, and it thinks it's so smart to find a loophole to this reality?

 _As if._

She focuses on that rage, that beast roaring in her stomach, in her blood, and she _pushes_ against the demon's will until the scrap of metal falls from her hand, until she's curled in herself, her hands holding her head, a vicious snarl curling her lips.

That's when the pain starts.

White hot and sudden, every part of her is on fire, her blood is molten lava and there are ants biting under her skin. The demon has tired itself from trying to escape and now has decided to simply fight her, to tear her apart until she's no more, inch by inch.

She refuses, and the pain doubles and then triples until her head feels like exploding, until the agony becomes the only way to be sure if she's still alive.

(Someone's screaming in the distance, but she's not in a state to notice who is it.)

Everywhere is fire, _fire, fire, fire_ _ **fire**_ except for the ice cold Seal on her hand that's throbbing incessantly. She won't be able to take this any longer, she knows, not when blood gurgles out of her mouth and her nails dig red trails on her arms and it's all or nothing now, so she focus all of her willpower to corner the thing inside her head as much as she can.

(She can't kill a demon, she knows it.)

It writhes and hollers so loud she's probably deaf by now, and it bangs against the cage she's making over and over again until she's got no more strength, until she just wants it to _end_ _it all_ with all the connotations that implies when the demon _pushes_ in one last attempt, battered and bruised and she feels the skin of her hand stretching and breaking, she feels the smoke coming out of her mouth once more and at some point recognises it passing through the cracked mirror once more before a voice screams to _SHATTER THE DAMN THING_ and she's still in pain after that, everything's still hurting _so much_ until her eyesight is filled with Blue, Really Blue, and she focuses on that, latching on it like a lifeline because she knows it, she knows the Blue but everything else is too blurry, her mind is too unfocused to make out the strange sounds that keep hammering her muffled ears.

She's still hyperventilating when the Blue becomes a pair of eyes, when she realises there are hands in her shoulders and a name fills her mouth but her tongue is too full of lead to function and her throat is a strange combination of both coarse and sticky.

Instead she falls, forward and pressing her forehead against his shoulder with a broken sob; she's too tired and too in pain to do anything else. Vaguely, she notices his arms around her, and then another set of hands, smaller and softer, gently combing her hair, but it's not the time to feel confused by the touch, by the proximity; she just welcomes it with a simplicity that would probably scare her had she been thinking straight.

"Why is it so hard to listen when I say not to touch a thing?" She rasps, and if anyone answers her anything, she's already too unconscious to tell.

* * *

 **(Ash is ambidextrous in case anyone's wondering.)**


	9. Chapter 9

**HEY I hope you all had some very nice holidays (whatever it is you celebrate) and have a very good new year too!**

 **Also, yesterday a friend of mine said 'I know I'm bitter and sometimes I feel bad, but then I remember that when you're in a bad mood you're pretty much black coffee and I feel better'. So yeah. I don't really know how to feel about that.**

 **ALSO- FormofJane has made a really cool polyvore set for Ash, go check it out at formofjane dot polyvore dot com.**

 **(I'll pretend I've totally not stalked the other sets she's made.)**

 **ALSO#2 it's pretty late right now so it's probable that some things get under my radar on the last re-read of this. Please just let me know if you find any writing horrors.**

* * *

 **Chapter IX**

 **Healing.**

 **(In which a lovely reader makes a cameo.)**

* * *

At first, she thinks she might be dead. Then she rationalises that no, if she were dead, there would be at least two or three different entities trying to get a piece of her soul. Still, everything hurts, and there's only darkness, so thick it's almost tangible around her fingers.

She stares at herself, or- well, at her not-quite-self, and not-she stares back, her eyes black and mouth curved in a scowl.

"That was stupid," not-she chastises her.

Ash holds her head in her hands, trying to get her foggy head to work. She remembers... she remembers _pain._ A lot of it. And then screaming, and then some more pain, and faces over her, around her, voices she should recognise. There's a ceiling somewhere, the scent of blood, then the scent of a sterilised area, more faces, an IV line, pain, pain, _pain._

Right. Demon.

"I know," she groans, "stupidest thing I've ever done, probably."

Not-her nods silently, "I've been busy trying to keep prying hands away from us, since you've been out of it for a while. We're quite vulnerable right now."

Ash nods. That's to be expected; when she wakes up she'll probably find some issues here and there, but hey, at least she _is_ waking up.

"Go on, then," that smile too full of teeth appears again "it's not polite to keep them waiting for long."

* * *

When she first opens her eyes, she's thankful it's dark around her. She blinks a few times, trying to focus on something, and the first thing that she can make out are her arms over the covers- _her_ covers, she notices. Her right one is heavily bandaged she notices, and the left, for the whole length of her forearm up to her knuckles, is on a cast.

 _Great._

Her ears pop then, and she starts to hear some muffled talking from somewhere in the room, but even if she strains her ears she can't place the voice.

"Oh, the sleeping beauty awakes!"

Okay, scratch that, she could identify Tony Stark's voice everywhere.

She tries to turn her head to the side- from where his voice is coming- but she only has enough to slightly angle her face towards him.

He's sitting on a loveseat that wasn't there before, his legs up a formerly cursed coffee table, and that's when she realises the voice from before are from some trashy show or another he's been watching on the TV.

She tries to speak, but her tongue is full of lead, of cotton, her throat is dry and doesn't seem to cooperate. She only manages to groan.

Well, same sentiment anyways.

"Easy there," he stands from his seat and perches and the edge of her bed, his hand moving towards her forehead. He smiles then, "well, at least the fever finally broke."

She closes her eyes then, and when she opens them up again there's a glass of water in front of her. Tony helps her drink, and even if most of the liquid goes to her chin and down her neck, she's still grateful for it. She tries to talk again after that, but her voice is still not cooperating.

"Okay, so, super short recap," Tony sets the glass on her nightstand, "you've been out of it for four days so far. Well, in and out of it, sort of."

She shots him a questioning glance, and he grimaces.

"Uh, sometimes you wake up screaming and thrashing until you're out of it again."

Ah. Right, figures.

He gestures towards her left arm, "you broke your forearm, apparently, that's what the cast's about. But you'll have to talk to Dr. Cho about it later- when you're in a state to talk, obviously. We've been taking turns to watch you in case you start the whole screeching and lashing out- because the first time was a surprise- and don't worry," he adds hastily, "nobody's touched anything in here. I mean, there's a sort of shadow-thing that's under the bed and hisses at us sometimes, but so far it's been harmless."

He keeps talking after that, but her eyes are already closing involuntarily, and she's fast asleep in less than ten seconds.

* * *

The next time she wakes, it's to fire. She thinks there's a fire in her room, but then she realises that no, the fire is _inside_ her, it's running through her veins and making her skin itch and burn; her head is pounding, _pounding, pounding,_ as if a hand is punching against her skull and claws are ensnared in her brain.

It's too much, too much pain, and there's a scream somewhere around her, shrill and high pitched and it's in a detached way that she realises that's her, probably, and then there are arms at her shoulders, holding her down , and there's a flash of red hair, and words she can't make out-

And like that, she's unconscious again.

* * *

The burning in her bloodstream doesn't stop, instead it sort of fades to the background; it's there, thrumming faintly, and if she distracts herself enough she can almost forget it for a while.

Gradually, she's more aware of her surroundings every time she wakes up again; blurs become familiar people, indistinct sounds become words. She can keep herself awake for hours now, and even if she still sleeps most of the day and she's unable to hold conversations for long, there's still progress, somewhere there.

At first, it surprised her that nobody asked what she had done with the demon, or answered what had exactly happened to her, how hurt she actually was. In the end, it's Wanda who says:

" says pushing your mind too much is bad."

Ash looks at the girl currently sitting on her bed next to her, idly drawing with colourful markers on her cast- something ridiculous like hearts and rainbows, probably- and simply nods. She knows her mind isn't the prettiest place there is, and that right now it's probably all sorts of unstable; one little push could trigger something _bad_.

"We talk when you're ready," Wanda assures her.

"And when's that?"

The girl shrugs, "when you can walk?" She offers.

The witch doesn't bother to hide her sigh.

* * *

Sometimes, Pietro muses with a wry smile, he's not the only one who gets impatient. Ash has been trying to coerce any of them into telling her the exact extent of her wounds, or a retelling of what had happened to her, from their perspective.

She almost wears him down, and it's only the vivid words Dr. Cho had warned them with- and the especially pointed look she'd shot at both Tony and him- that stop him from telling her. Which leads her to pouting- which she says she isn't doing, but she totally is.

"I just- I _can_ walk," she mutters in a tone that screams that if she could, she would've crossed her arms indignantly.

"To the door and back, yes? And is barely walking." His reply is short in an attempt to keep the laughter out of his voice.

She notices anyways and huffs. She falls silent for a while in a way that tells she's going to try another angle, to try and find some loophole, some way of discussing the subject.

He just busies himself with trying to find something to write or draw in her cast. Gnawing on the back of his blue sharpie, he tries to get inspiration from what the other residents of the Tower scribbled there, following Wanda's example. There's a game of tic-tac-toe between Clint and Steve- the soldier lost-, what appears to be a grocery list in Tony's handwriting, the little stars and hearts and rainbows Wanda had insisted on leaving there because _'she needs more colours, she's always so white or grey'_. He notices that Natasha hasn't written anything, but that doesn't surprise him-at best, the redhead and the witch are cordial to each other, but nothing more.

Nothing manages to inspire him- nothing that's on her cast, at least- and so he looks around her bedroom. The first time he'd been there, with the whole 'huge snake sliding over his feet' and all, he didn't really notice her room. The second time, he'd been half-asleep and she'd been screaming over small arachnids, so room decor was the last thing on his mind- way, _way_ after going back to sleep again.

But for the past days, he's been both fully awake and bored when she's asleep- at least the times that she's not screaming bloody murder and thrashing in her dreams. So he's retorted to distracting himself by examining her bedroom.

He'd been a bit surprised at first upon noticing the sheer number of potted plants she kept- from cacti to ferns and probably everything in between-, they were all over the room, on her desk, next to her bed, on the top shelf of her bookcase, always in groups of three or four, except for the one by her windowsill; the one with the lone white flower that only seemed to bloom at night. He recalled it as the plant that redheaded guy had given her, the plant she seemed to dislike but still took care of. Curious as for why it'd been alone, he'd gotten closer to inspection it, idly noticing that the trumpet-like flower was much like the dresses and skirts she usually wore.

' _That's a moonflower'_ , she'd said, out of sleep and interrupting his train of thought, _'don't touch it, it's poisonous. Especially the flowers.'_ And if that somehow fitted her too, he didn't say.

Besides the plants, the bedroom's filled with books, but he expected that part. They're all different sizes and though most of them look ancient and battered- and _dangerous_ -, he recognises some authors, despite not being much of a reader himself. Between the old imposing tomes, he'd read the names Poe and Shakespeare and Tolkien, which seemed to have nothing to do with each other, and Ash had simply claimed- witch slightly reddened cheeks- that she just _'likes things that are beautiful'_.

Other than that, there's a good amount of things Tony likes to refer to as 'witchstuff', candles and dried leaves and the odd raven feather, and a lot of other things he doesn't know what they are but didn't ask about anyways.

"I wouldn't tell anyone, you know," Ash drags him out of his musings, "I mean, I'm really good at keeping secrets..."

He snorts. Finally taking the sharpie to her cast, he distractedly starts to scribble something, "you are pushy," he tells her.

"I'm just worried about the stack of work that's accumulating on my desk."

"Mm," he's not really looking at whatever he's writing, "take this as vacation?"

"Yeah, no, I mean, my idea of vacations are cocktails on the beach or quiet getaways in snowy mountains, not," she gestures at herself with her right arm, " _this_."

He gets it, he honestly does. If their positions were reversed, he'd be doing anything and everything in his power to just get up and start running again. Then again... he also gets why Dr. Cho said not to talk about what happened until she was strong enough, until she was ready for it.

And if the screaming and tossing are of any indication, she still isn't.

"I just- was it that bad...?" Her voice is not exactly shy, more like quiet and thoughtful.

He sighs at that, his eyes closing momentarily. _Was it that bad_? Well, he wants to tell her, you tell me, I saw what you called a _demon_ enter your mouth and then I saw you falling to your knees and screaming in so much pain and blood was gushing out your nose and eyes and mouth and the scars on her arms- the scars that are there _because of me_ \- reopened and you were still screaming and tearing at your hair and digging your nails into your neck and face and nobody knew what to do, _I_ didn't know what to do, not when I was right there in front of you and you couldn't see me, couldn't hear me, not when I heard your arm do this awful _cracking_ sound when you let go of that piece of metal, not when your eyes flickered from black to grey and black again, not when that _thing_ left you all broken and sobbing and Steve broke the mirror when you screamed for someone to do it, not when you were unconscious and with a fever and delirious and Wanda cried herself to sleep almost every night because it seemed that you were going to die on us, choking on blood and fighting night terrors, not when _I_ let you do that when I should've forced you out of the room.

He doesn't say any of that, instead, he just tightens his lips and opens his eyes again, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. Ash takes the hint, and doesn't ask further, not about that, at least.

"What does it say there?"She nods at the words in Sokovian he ended up writing without really noticing, and honestly, he's never been more grateful that she only knows scattered words in his native tongue despite her profession.

"My name," he lies easily, trying not to choke on air when he reads what he wrote without really thinking.

She just rises an eyebrow, and comments on his lack of imagination and he pretends that he's not racking his brain for a reason as for why he put those two unrelated words on her inner wrist. Well, he gets a pretty good idea why he put the first one; he himself _had_ told Wanda how guilty he felt about all of this; as for the other one... That was a thought for another day, a thought to be filed away and explored later- _much later_.

Pietro shrugs at her jab and searches for another topic of discussion when he feels something slowly creep up his leg, and he looks down at it only to see the shadowy tendril retreat with haste under his stare.

"What is the thing under the bed?"

Ash shrugs with one arm, "honestly? No idea," she confesses, "some sort of shadow-like thing that developed sentience?"

"Is not dangerous?"

"Uh, it probably is, but it's been friendly with me so far, maybe I'll keep it," and then, she raises her voice, "the only downside it's that it's a sneaky little hoarder of everything shiny!"

Pietro can hear a hiss from under the bed, and he can't help but roll his eyes at the witch. His gaze is then falls to her cast once again, and he sighs. Wanda's going to hound him down with questions, he's sure of it; he can already imagine her voice, ' _brother, why did you wrote 'sorry' and 'pretty' on Ash's cast?'_

* * *

Four days later, during breakfast in the kitchen, Ash crosses the threshold and walks up to one of the stools, followed by Natasha, who's been in charge of watching her for the night and is also observing the way the witch moves, ready to catch her should she stumble.

She doesn't.

Instead, Ash moves heavily and slowly, with her teeth clenched, mostly out of sheer willpower- either that or stubbornness. She hasn't had what they been referring to as 'episodes' in two days, and she's obviously fed up with the situation.

She sinks with a hiss on the seat-two weeks or so of not really moving can do a number on anyone's body- elbows on the counter in front of her, and runs a hand through her heavily knotted hair.

She needs a shower, she knows it.

The room falls silent for a minute or so, while the witch stares holes into the wooden surface under her arms.

"So, uh, how are you feeling?" Clint asks around his mug of coffee.

"I feel the same way I look, probably," she grumbles, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again there's a steaming mug with dark liquid in front of her held by a hand, and she looks at the archer questioningly.

"Kid, you need it more than me," he smiles lopsidedly, but it doesn't escape her the way his eyes search her for any sign of, what, pain? Weakness?

She hates this.

Thankful, she takes one long gulp of coffee, comforted by the warm bitterness, and then she sighs:

"This is why you're the best person I've met, probably."

Clint chuckles, and happily ignores Tony's fake indignant gasp.

Ash takes a few more sips of her drink and then she licks her lips, "okay," she exhales shakily, "okay. We need to talk."

The atmosphere in the room grows heavy, and she looks at everyone in there, from Clint, who's sitting in front of her, sans coffee mug now, to Tony, who's still hovering by the fridge, sandwich half in the making, and Natasha, leaning against the doorframe.

She notes the absence of both Steve and the twins, and presumes they left for the facilities already. She also notes the uneasiness of their absence in the pit of her stomach, but chooses to ignore it.

"So, tell me what happened."

To her surprise, it's Natasha the one who steps forward and retells what she saw from her point of view. She explains the extent of her injuries; mostly cuts and bruises after the blood stopped pouring out of her, the scars that opened once again and had to be bandaged, and her left arm: only the Radius had broken, and the bones were not out of place. It wasn't a particularly bad fracture actually, but the cast had to stay on for at least another six weeks.

The witch nods at this, particularly thankful for the way the other woman talks to her, with guarded distance, like she's debriefing another agent; voice kept of emotion, just the facts. She's had her share of Looks already, of lip-biting and sighs and right now? Right now she's actually happy Wanda isn't there- or her brother, for that matter- because for all that she likes them, they're terrible at keeping their emotions at bay.

She doesn't know if she could handle the waver in their voice, perhaps even the fear in their eyes. She's seen possessions before, they're not _that_ uncommon, and they're _always_ ugly. Hers had been even more than usual, if she were to trust the redhead's word for it.

"How many casualties?"

Natasha stops for half a breath, and her eyes show a glimmer of regret, of guilt, before she takes her distance again.

"Five deaths, two agents and three scientists. And seven more agents hospitalised."

"And that idiot who caused the whole deal?"

"Alive," Natasha's eyebrows rise slightly at the level of disgust in Ash's voice, "also, fired."

" _Good."_

Tony leaves his sandwich untouched, the talk of death and blood making him loose his appetite. He extends a hand to touch the witch's shoulder, and then, retreats it before he finishes the motion.

"You said..." he trails off, the question on his mind for the past weeks, "before, you said to Speedy that thing was a demon?"

"Yes," then she thinks about it, and it's probably best if she explains everything, anyways. She lifts her right hand and shows them the barely-there wound on the back of it- a few more days and it'll probably disappear completely- and explains, "this is called the Seal of Solomon. It's supposed to trap demons- well; I guess that I proved it actually works."

"So you're saying," the archer runs a hand through his hair, "that you trapped a _demon_ inside you? _That's_ what you did?"

"Okay yes but to be fair, I don't really think things through in stressful situations," honestly, they should've noticed it by now, "and besides... I mean, if anyone had a chance of resisting demonic possession, it was out of anyone there."

"And if you hadn't?" Tony pushes, "resisted it, I mean?"

Ash smiles then, and it's void of any joy.

"A demon, even a lesser one, possessing a blood mage?" She shakes her head, "Then, Mr. Stark, we'd all be dead and probably half of New York on fire by now."

Natasha looks at her, her eyes slightly narrowed. "What were the chances that you failed then?"

"Fifty-fifty?" Ash purses her lips, "I mean, it did come close. _Very_ close." And yeah, that's not very reassuring, really, but it's better than saying _'I honestly didn't even know if I could do it to begin with.'_ It's not that she lacks faith on her own skills, it's that she _knows_ she can't kill a demon- it's just not a thing that you _do._

"And even if I had resisted with no problems," she continues, more to herself than to any of them, really "I guess I could've died anyways." She's certainly not without consequences.

The fire on her bloodstream hasn't stopped, it's more like it's faded in the background, still thrumming faintly, stabbing her with pain from time to time. There's probably other things too, things beside a broken arm, things Dr. Cho- or any other regular doctor, for that matter, no matter how brilliant they are- couldn't have diagnosed.

She's gonna have to look into that.

"So," Clint snatches her attention once again, "what happened after you trapped it?"

She shuts her eyes tightly at that. There's a stab of pain in her brain, a small one, but it's there nevertheless when she remembers the creature trying to tear her into pieces from the inside, smashing against the confines of herself, digging it's claws on her mind, gnawing at the edges of everything that makes her, well, _her_.

"It fought me," she says instead, "And I fought back and then the Seal broke, but I'm not sure how, I-" she stops, "I wasn't aware of what was going on outside..."

"Wanda," Natasha answers, "she was holding your hand, I think. If she dug her nails on your hand-"

"She could've broken the skin, and the Seal, yeah, that makes sense." The marks would've also faded by now too, so that explained why she couldn't see anything wrong with the Seal, "anyways, after that, the demon went through the mirror again and once it was smashed it couldn't come back."

Tony sits down on the stool next to hers, and sighs heavily.

"Of course, because an alien invasion isn't enough, there are demons too now," he mutters, and then to the witch: "so, there's a chance one of those things finds a way into our world again?"

"Well..." she drags the word, "technically speaking, yeah, there's always a chance. But," she adds, "it's not like they can walk freely, that mirror was like a loophole to the rules."

She observes the collective expectant expressions and elaborates.

"Okay, magic? Yeah it's not just saying a few words and stuff happens. There are rules to everything; it's like..." she gathers invisible words from the air, "there's energy everywhere, right? And anyone who's at least half competent into what I do, they know how to harness it and shape it to cause a reaction they want. You need a source, obviously, some people use fire, or gemstones, or a long list of boring things. Or, if you're like me, you use blood. Which is probably the most powerful and darkest and dangerous to the user of all kinds of magic, but that's too long an explanation," she breathes in, "what you call spells, or whatever glyphs or drawings I make, those help to direct that energy, to reshape it into whatever we want, but," Ash continues, "that's not enough. There are rules to every reality, to every plane, here, for example, a person can't just transform into a pig just because; so what does the people like me do? We find loopholes, yes, but mostly, is sophistry."

"Sophistry?"Tony asks her incredulously, "are you saying that you're what, _convincing_ reality to let you change it?"

"With poorly made arguments, yes," Ash laughs, "well, it's not _exactly_ that, but it's the easier way to explain it. The practice is harder than the theory, obviously. Point is, demons, or any creature from another plane of existence, really, they can't just jump into this world like that, and even if they did, they couldn't just use their bodies or abilities in any ways they wanted to. Because this reality has its own rules, and they say that those creatures just don't exist here like that. But there are artefacts, things like that stupid mirror that acts as... portals, loopholes, so they can sidestep the rules just like that if they want to. I mean, there _is_ a reason why I always say it's best to just destroy some things, it's not just because I'm bitter and my heart knows no joy," she rolls her eyes, "and besides, even if they _do_ cross into here, there are people around who care enough about the world to do something about it. There are some people who send the creatures back to their plane once they cross, and then some other people who prefer to stop them from doing so in the first place. We call these the 'regulators', because that's what they do; the control who passes and under what terms, and who doesn't."

"How?" Clint's interest of _finally_ getting to know how does magic works like is getting the best of him.

"Uh, Malcolm, for example? He does... well, it'd be easier to call them contracts, I guess. Certain beings contact him with reasons to come to this plane, and he drafts up a series of rules and terms for them to pass, binding them to those rules, so that if they break it, they're automatically sent back to their plane once again. Don't worry," Ash catches Natasha's stare, "for what's worth, Malcolm isn't the kind of guy who wants to see the world burn." _Not without a good reason anyways_ , but he doesn't tell them that. He's not really evil anyways, not any more than what she is.

"So this guy, Delacroix, you're saying he's a _supernatural lawyer_?"

"Well, if you want to see it that way, Mr. Stark. Just don't call him that to his face."

* * *

Ash is surprised again, when after Clint and Tony go- after Ash stressing that _yeah_ , she's _fine_ , she hasn't had an episode in days anyways-, Natasha lingers still. She's even more surprised when the redhead says her:

"You took a big gamble."

The witch stares at her, trying to guess her angle, and failing. There's a reason she's such a good spy, after all.

"Yes, I did."

"You could've died."

"I know," and then, "I _knew_."

Natasha angles her head, trying to dissect her with her stare, to see the pieces that make her tick.

"Then why risk your life like that? What did you have to win?"

She's gotten soft. She's gotten so soft she should be feeling ashamed of herself, she should be feeling disgusted. She's not, or, at least, not completely.

"Please don't go around thinking that I'm some sort of hero material who fights for the greater good because really, I'm _not_. I'm just... I'm selfish."

There it is again, that answer Natasha can't seem to grasp and understand.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" And yeah, maybe there's a bit more bite to it than what there should be, but she can't be bothered to care.

"It means that if there'd been just soldiers or agents there?" Ash shrugs, "I probably wouldn't have cared. At all. Maybe I'd just let the demon around and call some exorcist or whatever so that it doesn't destroy everything because well, I live here, right?"Her eyes soften then, just a bit, before they're steel and ice again. "But there weren't just agents and soldiers and scientist over there."

She's selfish.

She knows that hypothetically, if someone made her pick between Wanda's safety and levelling a whole town full of children and puppies and innocent bystanders, she'd pick Wanda with no remorse whatsoever, with no charge in her conscience.

Hours later, when Natasha's brushing her teeth and the witch's words still swim around her head, she realises what they actually mean.

She's selfish.

She _cares_.

* * *

She doesn't have to wait long to realise just how much harm she's been inflicted. While she's finally back in her office and working on some sort of cursed bracelet with inscriptions in Aramaic, she takes a needle to one of her fingertips, intent on tracking the past owners of the bracelet and the next thing she knows she's on the floor, head cradled in her able hand, pain cutting through her mind like a knife. The fire in her bloodstream rises again in waves and although it doesn't goes for more than a minute or so, it still feels like a thousand years.

When it's over, she can taste the blood in her mouth from where she bit her tongue in an effort not to scream- she doesn't want more frantic faces around her any sooner than what's _really_ necessary. After a hurried call to Malcolm with tears blurring her vision- and an actual call this time, not writing numbers in a mirror with her own blood- she sags on her chair, not bothering to clean the tears now running on her cheeks.

This is _bad_.

It's the next day that the imposing man arrives, coincidentally- or maybe not so much- at a time when there's only Tony in the tower to frown at him from his spot in the couch.

"Try to do something," Malcolm instructs her in his always measured voice, "something that's not blood magic."

She nods at him and settles on something simple: darkening a bit the lights of the room. She focuses on the lights and whispers a binding to start siphoning and then-

Then there's a voice screaming inside her head, it's too much, _too much_ and there's lava inside her veins, burning everything at its wake and when it passes, she's kneeling on the floor and Tony's looking at her with big round eyes, torn between letting whatever he's not understanding occur and going to her side and just _do_ something.

She can say a lot of things about Tony Stark, but she's not the one who'll say he's not loyal.

Malcolm doesn't help her up, and she doesn't expect him to. Instead, he kneels in front of her and looks directly into her eyes, before placing a hand in her forehead. His magic is cold, it's always been that way to her, in a way that's not hurtful but not pleasant either; it's like ice suddenly thrown down her back.

"The demon broke something, in here," he places a single finger between her eyes, "it hurt the connection you have with the Flow."

"So I can't do magic anymore?"

Tony can hear the slight tremble on her voice and can't help but feel for her. She's as much a witch as she's a linguist, and she always devotes herself to her job- or it looks that way. If she can't do magic- well. He supposes it'd be the same as if someone suddenly took his Iron Man suit away.

"Mm," Malcolm taps the same finger on his chin, standing up again, "it _did_ quite a number on you, but the connection's not completely severed, and I suppose that you're as resilient as it gets. You seem to have a tendency to bounce back whenever something hurts you bad- like when Aidan broke your fingers-"

"And I broke his nose right afterwards," there's a tiny note of humour in her voice that Tony notices.

"Yes. Well, my best guess is that you need to rest from everything remotely, ah, magickal, for a while. Try to keep away from the Nightmares too."

Ash furrows her brow, "what? And what am I supposed to do? How am I even supposed to do that?"

"Try to dream? I've heard that's what regular people do."

"So there's really nothing else you can do? I just need to rest for an indefinite period of time?"

"Try for about the same time that you have to wear that cast at first, if you still can't, then wait longer. You need to give it time to heal."

She sighs, and drags herself over the couch, sitting next to Tony and avoiding his searching eyes.

"There's... a way that you could accelerate the process."

The witch stares incredulously as Malcolm takes a small glass bottle out of the pocket of his suit, and hands it to her, "of course," he says, "this could be worse than just resting, this could give you even more pain. You're old enough to pick what risks you want to take."

She mutters her thanks to him, because really, she is thankful that he's come all the way here and that at least she's got a clearer picture on what was wrong with her.

Tony accompanies the man to the elevator, and Malcolm thanks him with a polite smile that's nothing short of a threat at the same time.

"Keep in mind that what she's done it's not only incredibly stupid, it's also impressive," the lawyer comments, "I don't know many people who could not succumb to a demon's will and end up both alive and sane. "

"Well," Tony answers, "you almost sound surprised."

"Ah, _almost_."

When Tony goes back, he finds Ash staring at the bottle in her hands; the liquid is a pale yellow colour, and it looks like it's slightly glowing.

"So what's that thing, anyways?"

She doesn't look at him when she answers, "medicine. Sort of. It's what you'd call 'light magic' I guess."

He sits next to her again, "that doesn't sound so bad."

"Maybe to you it doesn't. Actually, it'd be good to you, to _me_?" she grimaces, "I meant what I said about blood magic being the darkest kind. I'm tainted, Mr. Stark, as far as I know this thing either helps me with my no magic problem, or it kills me."

"Is there any way to know which one is it?"

"Of course there is," she uncorks the bottle with her teeth and spits out the cork, "cheers," and she takes a small sip of the yellow fluid.

Nothing happens at first, nothing except for a sense of warmth and comfort that invades her, stopping momentarily the pain she's used to by now.

"Well, I think that answers the- _oh_!" The witch hastily puts down the bottle and raises her right hand to her mouth. Her stomach is in knots, her body obviously trying to reject something so alien, so simply _good_. Bile rises up her throat and she has to force it down once again. And all of this with a sip?

Yeah, this was going to be fun.

* * *

It's almost like a game, the way they're both pretending everything's normal, and if he tries really hard, he can act as if guilt hasn't been eating him away, as if she hasn't broke her arm, as if she's not been even more of a recluse lately, as if those circles under her eyes aren't really darker, as if she doesn't occasionally look at her own hands with a disappointed frown or as if he can't hear her sniffle occasionally after she tenses up and rides one of the waves of pain that assault her out of the blue.

But he doesn't want to play, not this game, not like this.

He allows a sigh to leave his lips in a rush of air, and she almost flinches at the quiet sound.

"I am-"

"If the next word you say is 'sorry'," she doesn't take her eyes away from her book, "I'm going to punch you."

There's not a trace of anger in her voice, and he knows that even if she meant it, she couldn't even touch him if he didn't want to, let alone punch him. He also knows she knows this.

He presses the subject anyways.

"I should not have let you do it. I _could_ have stopped it."

"And what then? Leave a demon to rampage without anyone knowing how to handle it?"

Logically, she is right. Logically, he knows it. Emotionally, he still feels like it was his fault.

" _I_ made the choice, okay? Trust me, if I wanted to I could've easily run away on my own."

There's a barrier between them again, almost tangible, he notices. He tries to touch her elbow, to give her some sort of comfort, and she flinches away from him, escaping his touch. It's like the beginning again, almost; she's there but she's so far away and he doesn't know if he can reach her.

"I should have known you were to do something dumb."

She laughs at this, and turns the page from her book, "calling it 'dumb' it's putting it too nicely. And this? Me with a cast and unable to do magic? This is probably the best case scenario, considering."

He can't honestly see what's so great about the outcome, not when she sometimes stares into a corner, eyes open wide, looking afraid of unseen ghosts.

"It was a necessary sacrifice."

And he wonders how many times the past days have she told this to herself? She's not willing to let herself be perceived as weak, as hurt; he knows she's proud, he knows she doesn't really appreciate people flocking around her, treating her like some fragile doll.

"You are _not_ a sacrifice."

She looks up at him at that.

They're at a standstill, an impasse, and none of them want to back off, to let the other win the argument and sometimes she resents him for not letting things go, for insisting to look at her as something better than she is, for insisting that _she_ looks at herself that way.

She looks back down, to her book, and doesn't answer.

Pietro sighs again. She makes things difficult; he should be used to it, but this silence, this invisible divide he can't seem to break? He can't stand it, not when he'd made so much progress before. He doesn't like to go back if he can help it.

He tries his luck then, and puts his hand on the counter, palm facing up, but doesn't look at her, instead, he focuses on the cold slice of pizza in his plate, his excuse for the night. She doesn't reach, and maybe something else broke inside her too and this is all hopeless- except for Wanda, whom the witch seems to adore no matter what-but then he feels the brush of her fingers against his, even more hesitant than the first time but still there nonetheless.

She doesn't explore his hand this time- because he's certain that's what she'd been doing, familiarising herself with the notion of touching another-; she just places her fingertips over his and leaves her hand that way. So, while it's not exploring, she prays he understands what she's trying to say, that she's still curious about it, that she's interested if he still wants to offer, that maybe he can help her build the foundations of an actual friendship- because even if she's been using the term loosely with him before, in the privacy of her mind she calls it more like a pleasant acquaintance.

This is another game, he notices, he pretending his eating without really touching his food, and she pretending to read without really turning the page. He finds, however, that he doesn't particularly mind this game.

(The next day, when he goes to wake up his sister and finds the witch curled in her bed in what's either a very tight hug or just a tangle of limbs, he feels a small pang of a bitter emotion before it melts and he snaps a picture of the girls with his phone.

That he's wary of anyone who's close to his sister doesn't surprise him; for such a long time they'd had just each other to trust, each other to protect, that anyone getting too close to her sets alarms in head for the first couple of seconds, almost like a survival instinct, before he manages to put those emotions under control. Many times Wanda has complained about his over-protectiveness before, and he's doing much better at allowing more space between them.

What worries him it's that he's not entirely sure to whom that short-lived jealousy was directed towards now.)

* * *

She's got _at least_ one more week with the cast on- but it's probably going to be more, given her luck- and she's ready to murder something. She's never felt so useless before, so vulnerable to everything. Her magic isn't close to comic back without feeling like something's trying to rip her mind to shreds; and it surely doesn't help that she can't take more than a sip of her remedy per day.

(She tried to drink more; she ended up throwing up everything she'd ate so far in the day.)

She knows she's isolating herself, but she can't help it, the same way she can't help sleeping in Wanda's room from time to time, too afraid to be on her own room.

There's too much darkness in there, and even if the thing under the bed keeps her company-and steals any shiny thing that falls down- the nightmares, with lower case n, are new to her. She can't control them, not the same way she controls the Nightmares, she's not really aware of herself, and the first time she wakes up terrified and covered in sweat she can't seem to close her eyes again.

Wanda's familiar, she's comfortable, warm, and she says that _it's alright, she used to do the same thing with her brother when they were little, they still do sometimes when one of them has a particularly bad night_ , and Ash doesn't reply to that, but curls her body around the other girl's, and buries her face in her hair, between her shoulders, her neck, anywhere she can, and most times her sleep come easier, even if it's just a bit.

(Some other times she cries quietly that way, because she's exhausted and sad and in a lot of pain and very, _so very_ broken and vulnerable and Wanda's nice and soft and pretends she doesn't notice her crying.)

And speaking of the devil, that very same girl knocks lightly on the glass wall of her office- she doesn't come in unless the witch allows her to do so-, and Ash beckons her forward.

"Wear something pretty," she says as soon as she crosses the threshold, "we are taking you out!"

Ash blinks at her, "now?" and then, _"we?"_

"Now, yes. And we, my brother and I."

The witch scrunches up her nose in distaste, "I don't want to go out," she states.

"I will get Pietro to drag you out, he won't mind it."

At that, she pauses. Well, yes, that's always the possibility, and she'd much rather not be manhandled on this afternoon, thank you very much.

"Fine," she agrees, "but I'm not dressing up."

* * *

Later, when she's showered and put on a barely worn high-waisted skirt and sweatshirt and she's walking with a twin on each side of her, she realises she never asked where are they going. When she voices her thoughts, Wanda answers:

"There is an art exhibition not far."

"Why an art exhibition?"

It's Pietro, by her left, who answers this time:

"Because you like things that are beautiful, no?"

She nearly stops there, her breath rushing out of her suddenly. He's not supposed to remember when she says those things.

* * *

"You like this one?"

Ash has been staring at a particular photograph for the last fifteen minutes, and while his sister decided to go on to see the rest of the gallery, Pietro opted to wait for Ash, but after fifteen minutes of the girl simply looking at the piece, he got curious as to why it caught so much of her attention.

"I guess I do," she answers.

"Why?"

She looks at him incredulously, like he's missing something obvious, "look at it."

He does. The photograph is black and white, and the image looks slightly grainy, like it was taken by an older sort of camera. It's a woman, or part of one, at least; the only thing visible is the area from her lips to the valley of her breasts, the thin straps of a top or dress half-fallen off her shoulders. He doesn't know much of art- if he knows _anything_ at all, really- and yeah, it's a nice picture, taken from a higher angle, soft and a bit sensual, but he notices there's something so, so sad about it too...

"It... is nice, yes. But why do you like it so much? She looks sad."

She refuses to slap her own forehead.

" _Look at it_ ," she stresses.

"I _am_ looking-" and then, he takes in the shape of the woman's lips. He looks at Ash, and then back to the photograph, "is you?"

"Yeah," her lips curl just a bit upwards, "that's me."

"Who took it?"

The witch sighs almost inaudibly, and her eyes go far away for a minute before she tears her gaze from the piece to look at him, "not an ex-girlfriend, but the closest thing to one, probably," she shrugs, "I lived in this small apartment in Barcelona for a few months a couple of years ago. There was a photographer next door, she liked film instead of digital, and she also liked me. I liked her too, for a bit."

"You miss her?"

"I've got good memories of her; I just don't mind them being just memories."

* * *

Going back to the Tower, Ash notices the twins have changed places; Wanda's now at her left while Pietro on her right and that'd probably would be much of a deal, if from time to time his hand didn't brush against the back of her- now bandage-less- arm. It wasn't as if he was doing it on purpose, the streets of New York tend to be crowded and more often than not someone recognised him and asked for an autograph or a picture or _omaigosh, can you say my name with your accent pretty please?_

Wanda laughed at all of it every time, and that's when they recognised her too, and asked for pictures with both of them then- except for one girl who practically pushed Pietro aside because _you're the Scarlet Witch! How do you do your make up so pretty?! Ahh my friends are going to be so jelous!_

She was less at ease than her brother with the attention, Ash noticed, but she still amused her fans anyways, polite and just slightly uncomfortable, until a kid with a dog easily twice the size of him approached her. Then her hands flew to her mouth and she almost instantly bent over to pet the furry creature, calling his brother and the witch actually laughs when Pietro gushes over the dog too, like he's the actual kid, energetically scratching long ears.

Later, when they're about to enter the Tower he tells Ash:

"We always wanted a dog, since we are very little. We just never could." He doesn't say why, he doesn't have to say it, and she opens her mouth to reply but there's a voice that interrupts her from doing so:

"Well don't you look like you fought a blender and lost, short stack!"

The witch looks at the girl who's lounging against the wall of the Tower with a slight smirk on her face.

"Karissa?" Ash asks.

"Yeah, well, unless you've seen someone else as pretty as me around lately, then that's your only possible answer, "she nears her then, completely ignoring the twins, and continues, "heard you managed to swallow a demon and live to tell it."

"Word travels fast."

"Or we're all just super noisy," she adjusts her purple-rimmed glasses over her nose, "so what did the thing taste like, anyways?"

"Taste? Sorry, I was too busy trying not to be _possessed_ to notice the _taste_."

"Damn, too bad."

Pietro shares a look with his sister, and then stares at the girl- Karissa, Ash had called her. She's quite tall and dresses all in black, but other than that she doesn't look especially threatening, not with her wide doe eyes behind the lenses, at least.

Then again, Ash looks like an angel, and he's seen what she can do.

"What are you doing here anyways?"

"Eh," Karissa shrugs, "I had some business to attend here, and I'm repaying a favour on the go," she takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to the shorter girl, "that's from Malcolm, and girl, just convince him to get a cell phone and start texting."

Ash reads the content and frowns, "he's the one who told me I should rest,"

"Hey, I'm just the messenger here. Well then, now that my job is done, bye!" She actually stops to wink at Pietro before going her way.

"Is something wrong?" Wanda asks Ash upon noticing her face.

"No, no..." she answers vaguely, "I just may need to go away in a couple of weeks for a few days."

And that sets alarms off in Pietro's head, but he wills them into silence, after all, he's probably over-reacting.

Right?

* * *

 **K so platonic cuddling is amazing and everyone should do it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**I AM SO SORRY-**

 **I was away on a month-long trip to Europe in which I proved that yeah I'm** _ **such**_ **a responsible adult that I spent like... a lot... on Dragon Age, Pokemon and LotR merchandising. Because I have absolutely no self-control at all. On the other hand I** _ **do**_ **have 5 DA vinyl figurines so...**

 **ANYWAYS. CLASS ALSO STARTED AND IM ALREADY STRESSING OUT.**

 _ **AWKWARD HANNAH:**_

 _ **Thank you so much! I'm happy you're enjoying this so far, and yeah, you go ahead and make an account so I can talk to you directly- just ask any reviewer, I love to talk. I do. Also, you go ahead and write something, I totally encourage that!**_

 _ **Oh, and platonic cuddling is something I do all the time with a lot of friends, actually, idk, I have a picture on my nightstand of my 2 oldest friends and I sleeping together, cuddling and stuff. Is it from when we were little girls? Nope, it's from like, two months ago. Platonic cuddling it's not only real, it's also healthy and cute.**_

 **Whatever guys, moving on-**

* * *

CHAPTER X

Forces of Nature

(Or: a Study on the Relationship Between Ash and Aidan.)

* * *

It goes on, this strange game that they're playing. She's not sure what any of them is trying to accomplish with it, but neither of them seem to be backing down any time soon.

She touches, he lets her.

It's easy enough, innocent enough. Mostly, it's silent, if only at first. They both pretend to ignore what the other one it's doing while actually being acutely aware of what's going on, and she doesn't know if she's amused by it or frustrated; perhaps an odd mix of both notions. Sometimes, while she memorises the topography of his hands by touch only, she entertains the notion of just grabbing a knife and stabbing his palm; seeing if that makes him talk, makes him lash at her, makes him run away.

Ash smothers the embers of her- _figurative_ \- demons before they can grow into much of a fire.

There's a violence inside of her, there's always been.

Hands are good, hands are fine, it's as good as a routine gets, she supposes. And then Pietro just _has_ to go ahead and push back, raise the stakes a little higher because he gets impatient, he hates being still for long, and she has to suppress an urge to slap him- or herself, if she's being honest at all.

The first time it happens, she's walking towards the kitchen, already lamenting the meeting she has later that day with a client who keeps insisting that he needs a lucky talisman- even if she keeps telling him _there's no such thing._

Maybe she'll just make a shiny little thing and charge him a ridiculous amount for a useless object, because hey, she _can_.

It happens right on the corner of the hallway, he's not exactly running but he's still in a rush, and she's much too distracted, and well, it's not the first time she literally bumps into someone, really.

He steadies her, mindful of her cast, hands on her shoulders long enough that she can feel his warmth starting to seep in, but still short enough that he can hide under the pretence that it was just a natural reaction- even if everyone knows not to really touch her unless it's absolutely necessary.

"Sorry" he mutters, and she can tell he's anything but.

The slight curve at the corner of his lip and the small gleam in his eye tells her all she needs to know.

He's challenging her.

She frowns. She'd been fine with just hands.

She's not fine with people daring her, saying she can't do something, anything.

She frowns harder when she realises he's learning just what buttons to push.

Next time she sees him, she pretends she needs something from the exact cupboard he's blocking, and instead of asking him to move, she ducks under his arm and reaches on the tip of her toes to grab some thyme she doesn't really need. She turns around then, close enough that she's invading his personal space, but not touching him.

"What?" She asks when he looks at her strangely.

"Nothing," he shrugs with one shoulder, but grins anyways, and she's sure he knows what she's doing, exactly.

She ducks around him again, and walks briskly to her room, wondering what she could do with thyme, when she realises that by taking the bait he'd laid, she's just enabled this game that they've been playing to become a Game.

Somewhere, Aidan is grinning, she knows it, somehow. And she hates it.

* * *

"The passive-aggressiveness of this is killing me," Tony mutters around his mug.

Clint answers with a noncommittal grunt and a slight inclination of his head to show agreement.

"Are they fighting?" Steve asks, at the other side of the millionaire.

"I'm... not sure, old man. She looks pissed, I _think_."

"Yeah, well," the archer mutters, "she sorts of looks like that half the time, anyways."

The other two men agree with the statement, but still they eye the pair in question. The best way to describe it is that they've been... hovering, around each other, for the past days. Not doing anything really, and it'd probably wouldn't be a big deal if it was anyone else- but it's the witch, so it's _not_ nothing.

Currently, Pietro's looking at the screen of his phone, but he's looking at the screen of his phone _right_ next to Ash, while she's fiddling with the coffee maker's buttons and switches- who buys a coffeemaker so complicated anyways?

She's reaches blindly besides her for the empty mug she knows it's there, when the cold ceramic is pressed into her hand, warm fingers briefly brushing hers.

She stills and looks at him over her shoulder, at his barely-there smile, and she smiles in return, much too-wide, much too feral for it to be properly nice.

"Thanks," the word comes out gnawed on sharp teeth and filled with sweet poison and yeah, she can see the three men staring blatantly at the scene and she can perfectly hear what they're saying but ignores them.

"Shit," Tony mutters, "I wouldn't want to be at the end of that smile."

It shouldn't bother her that much, they're ridiculous things, honestly; a brush of a hand or a pat on the shoulder, things that are open and friendly and don't have much of an ulterior motive.

It's the fact that he pretends he's not doing on purpose what she can't stand- or, the fact that he pretends he doesn't know why she reacts the way she does.

She's a prideful little thing; she's not good at loosing.

On her way out, she pretends she accidentally bumps his elbow and lets a _very_ polite 'so sorry' slither past her lips.

"Okay, this is getting creepy," Pietro can hear Tony say.

" _What_ ," Clint points the way Ash left with his head, "was all that?"

"Are we sure we want to know?" Steve frowns.

And yeah, maybe Pietro just opens wide his eyes and puts a hand over his heart, swearing that he has _no idea_ what they're talking about, and nobody really believes it, but that's all they get anyways.

* * *

"Pietro!"

"Wanda?"

His sister corners her, holding onto his sleeve before he can run. She's frowning and for a minute he's afraid something happened, something bad, and then-

"She won't tell me a thing!" She almost yells in Sokovian.

"What?"

"Ash!" She points her finger at him, "What are you playing at?"

And he laughs, actually laughs then, because yeah, they're playing alright, but-

"I've no idea" he admits, and then smiles, the slight warmth of it it's not lost on Wanda, "but I got her to play too."

His sister rolls her eyes, but there's no real anger behind the gesture.

"Fine," she ends up saying, "but if she ends up hexing you, I'm not stopping it."

* * *

She can't believe it.

She flexes her fingers, trying them, marvelled at the lack of a cast in her arm. She's never been happier in a while, honestly- well, maybe 'happy' is not the exact word. Content. Relieved. More like those, actually. Even if her magic hasn't come back yet, she can feel it there; it's not going to be long until she can use it like always once again.

So when Steve invites her to eat with the rest and watch a movie, as he usually does every time they do it, this time she says that sure, whatever, it couldn't hurt, right?

"Wait, seriously?" The soldier blinks at her.

She huffs, "well, if you don't want me to-"

"No, no! I just didn't thought you'd want to."

"Then why are you always inviting me?"

"It's polite to do it."

And she snorts at that, because, seriously? That's such a Steve thing to do that she can't be really angry at him, not really.

So she pretends she can't hear Tony making remarks at her and sits on the far end of the couch, arms folded, and waits for the rest to decide what movie to watch. In the end, Sinister gets picked, and Ash snorts at the way Clint looks just a little pale, and how Tony keeps jumping a little every once in a while.

She's not really bothered by the movie, not with her line of work being what it is, but nevertheless she finds herself restless. She should have seen it coming, really, when she sat in the couch instead of one of the individual seats, because as it is, she's pretty much crushed against the armrest, Pietro's thigh against hers. The couch is for three people ideally, but _no_ , Tony wanted to be there too and nobody was willing to move.

She should have moved.

She looks at the man next to her, but he's too engrossed in the movie- and hogging the popcorn, she realises amusedly- to pay her much attention.

And he's _warm._ So very ridiculously warm- maybe it's a side effect from his powers? She's not sure, really, and she doesn't particularly care. The worst thing about the whole ordeal, honestly, is that she isn't as bothered as she should've been by it, and she swallows a curse when she realises that _this_? This whole sharing time with the others and watching a movie and just being generally friendly?

She likes it.

Her phone buzzes then, she sees the screen light up from its place on the coffee table, and she briefly glances at the name on the screen before rolling her eyes.

Shortly, it buzzes again.

And again.

By the sixth text she receives in a span of five minutes, Natasha actually pauses the movie and glances at her gravely. She doesn't really have to say anything.

"Aidan texts me stupid shit when he gets drunk," Ash mutters.

"Thought you weren't friends?" Steve asks from his spot on the floor, his back against Natasha's knees.

"No," the witch replies, "we aren't. Just ignore the buzzing."

They do, even if the texts keep coming, but eventually the sound fades into the background and it's easy to forget.

Ash relaxes eventually, resigning to herself to spend at least one more hour firmly stuck between the armrest and Pietro's- _incredibly warm_ \- side. She needs to win this weird standoff that's been going on between them, it's a fight, but they're not really fighting, and she's not really angry, but she hides under anger's pretence.

That's much more familiar and easy than admitting she's having fun or- God forbid it- _enjoying_ the little touches.

(She is, she actually is, a voice screams at her, and she quiets it with promises of violence.)

She sighs, and realises that at some point or another, he's put his hand on his thigh, palm facing upwards, and he's not looking at her, in that obvious way that they have been doing as of lately. Biting her lip, she makes sure nobody else is looking and ever-so-slowly accepts the truce- a short one, she can guess- he offers, sliding her fingers over his, over his palm, in practiced ease, pressing softly against his pulse point in his wrist and steadying herself with the constant _beat, beat, beat_ of his heart.

It's a little too fast, maybe, but that's just like him.

Ash then goes back to his palm, the movie completely forgotten to her by now, and she notices him twitching at a particularly ticklish spot. She does it again and he shots her a warning glance out of the corner of his eye so of course she does it once, and then he's slotted his fingers in hers, effectively restricting the use of her hand, caging it.

It's almost too warm for her to handle properly.

A third of her wants to run away, another third wants to twist his hand in a painful way, the other third...

The remaining third is so silent it almost deafens, and that's never a good sign.

He squeezes once, and she realises he's looking sideways at her, without turning his head. He's measuring her, she realises, observing her reaction, trying to guess how far he can push her limits without her shutting him off completely.

She doesn't squeeze back.

She doesn't take her hand away either.

The credits start rolling before she notices the movie is over and Pietro lets her hand go before someone turns on the lights.

"Well that was awful," Clint shudders, "I still don't know how you stand to watch this kind of stuff."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Natasha chides him.

"You're kidding, right? I mean, I get it that _she_ ," he points at Ash, "doesn't really care, she's probably seen worse stuff, right?"

She opens her mouth to reply, but then her phone rings, actually rings, not the buzzing of a text message, and she frowns deeply.

"He _does_ talk to you a lot," Wanda comments with an easy smile, but Ash doesn't return it.

"No," her frown gets deeper, "he doesn't call unless something's happened."

Wanda watches her hurry to take the phone to her ear and then answer with a simple, 'what's wrong?'

The witch scrunches up her face and rubs her nose. "I can't believe you," she grinds out, "you're an idiot," afterwards. When she hangs up there's a pregnant pause in the room, and she schools her expression to a careful neutrality, "I'll be right back," she simply says, and hurries out of the room.

Distantly, they hear the elevator working, and five minutes later the witch walks again inside the room with Aidan in tow.

"I _cannot_ believe you," she's muttering, and he's walking maybe a little askew, with a busted lip and a bruised cheekbone.

"I didn't saw the tattoos until it was too late!" He whined.

"I'm amazed you're still alive so far in your life, honestly," she then points at the nearest empty chair, "sit."

"Yes ma'am."

Ash then looks at the others on the room, and curls her lips into a practiced smile, "please watch over the idiot who tried to cheat a member of the Yakuza in poker. I'll be right back."

She turns on her heel and storms off, smoke practically coming off her nose.

"Well..." the redhead starts, holding his left side with a hand, "fancy meeting all of you here."

"Japanese organized crime?" Natasha smirks at him, "seriously?"

"Yes, yes, I'm an idiot, I know. Try not to be too happy about it."

"Too late," she mutters, but otherwise says nothing else.

Ash comes back with a small medical kit in her hands and ignores everyone except for the redhead once again.

"Shirt off."

Aidan smirks then, and Pietro feels a wave of dislike rolling over him, "if you wanted to get into my pants you only had to- BITCH!" he screams when the witch presses two fingers to his ribs.

"Shirt. Off."

They stare at each other, coiled, tense, and she digs her fingers a little deeper, making him wince and finally tug at the end of his shirt.

His torso is covered in black and blue.

Ash snorts something that sounds remarkably like ' _obviously'_ and starts to prod and poke at his mottled skin, perhaps a bit too roughly if his constant hisses are any indication.

"Bruised ribs, but not broken," she finishes, "pity."

"So sweet."

"You deserve this and worse."

"As if you're any better, miss lets-swallow-up-a-demon-and-see-what-happens."

She bristles at that.

The witch brings her face close to him and hisses: "don't make me break your nose again."

"You do that, I burn your hair."

Pietro tenses at that but Wanda puts a hand over his arm, stopping him. _She can take care of herself_ , she's telling him with her eyes, _let her_.

Ash turns around sharply then, as if suddenly remembering they're not alone in the room, eyes wide open. "Sorry," she sighs, "we'll get out of your hair," and then grabs the supplies in her arms again and kicks Aidan's shin until he grabs his discarded shirt and follows her.

* * *

"Did you _have_ to come here?" She practically screams in his face after she closes the door to her room.

"I was in New York already, and you're the only one who doesn't owe me money in the area."

"The least likely to murder you in your weakened state, you mean."

She harshly dabs his lip with antiseptic, the frown still in her delicate face.

"So what's the deal with you and the superhero bonding time, anyways?"

"Not wanting to antagonise the people you live with is such an odd concept for you, Aidan?"

He snorts, "there's 'not antagonising', and there's sitting with popcorn in front of a huge tv."

She doesn't say anything, instead she finishes her task and throws the cotton ball into trash, leaving the rest of the supplies back in her bathroom cabinet.

"Guess you staying here tonight," she tries, more civilly this time.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Aidan concedes, running a hand through his messy locks, "I mean, you have a pretty huge bed and all."

"Yes, yes, there _are_ some perks of living with Tony Stark I suppose," she zips off the skirt she'd been wearing and then takes off her shirt, throwing both things at a corner.

She vaguely registers a wispy shadowy tendril grabbing the sparkling shirt and dragging it under her bed.

Aidan kicks off his shoes while Ash unhooks her bra and shrugs it off too.

"I'm serious though," she can hear him continue behind her, "you _are_ being terribly friendly to them."

"Well you can just _fuck of-_ " She doesn't finish her sentence, as he grabs her wrist and forcefully turns her around and really, it's a bit ridiculous, some small part of herself notes, how she's naked except for a pair of white cotton panties and he's got his jeans unzipped and hanging low on his narrow hips, and it's still the further thing away from anything remotely sexual or romantic.

Somehow, it also makes sense; after all they're probably the only people- Malcolm notwithstanding- that can perfectly see all of the ugly truths in each other.

"You're hurting me," she states, emotionless.

"You're getting _soft_ " he spits the word as if it's a curse, as if it's tainted, _wrong_ somehow.

They're at a standstill, neither of them wanting to back off. His grip on her is painful, it'll probably leave bruises, but she refuses to roll over and let him win. They're both forces of nature, a volcano and a perfect storm, constantly clashing, hurting, mocking, pushing each other way past boundaries until the only thing left it's the raw and bloodied, the bubbling violence they harbour; hot rage against cold anger.

It's the only way they know how to be.

Malcolm never encouraged it, never really approved it, but didn't dissuade it either.

They'll stretch and stretch it but don't let it snap, until they're both exhausted and there's no more ire simmering, until they're broken, empty.

And then they return for more, because they need each other to do this.

They're the only ones who'd be able to take it, anyways.

There's a violence inside her, but there's a violence inside him too, and the outlets they have are scarce.

"Why do you care?"

"You sleeping with any of them?"

"I'm _not_ you."

His nostrils flare and he squeezes her wrist even harder until she hisses in pain. He lets her go, then, and finishes taking off his pants while she rubs her abused wrist absently.

After they're both under the covers and staring at the ceiling, it's the witch that says distractedly: "you think it's bad we're so comfortable being cruel to each other?"

"Well, duh," he snorts, "I mean, it's obviously pretty toxic, by regular health standards."

"But we're not regular."

She holds her wrist in front of her eyes and sighs.

"Did I break anything?"

"No," she answers, "just bruised, that's all," and then, "should we try harder at keeping thing civil between us?"

Aidan grimaces at that, "we _could_ try but... I think we'd end up doing this at some point anyways. I mean, we're better, right?"

"The lack of teenage angst helps, I guess. Even if you still have the emotional maturity of a fifteen year old."

He snorts. Her insult lacks the bite from before, so he just curls his lips upwards and whispers, "so mean..."

After a couple of minutes in silence, he starts again:

"So what's the thing under the bed anyways?"

"Ugh. A shadow entity of some sort, not sure, really. It probably gained sentience from my negative thoughts or something."

"You going to keep it?"

"Maybe," she shrugs, "it's some quiet company. Maybe I can train it."

A hiss comes from under the bed.

"Fine, not training then," she chuckles, "whatever, you should at least pay rent or something."

Another hiss.

"You should name it."

"Whatever for?"

"It's easier to call it something else than 'the thing under the bed'."

She purses her lips, considering, "maybe I will."

Heartbeats of silence pass, and the witch sighs, suddenly drained of all her energy. She's going to need to cover the Aidan-shaped-fingerprints on her wrist by the next day before anyone notices.

"Aidan?" She practically mutters, and hates herself for it, because yeah, she might be getting soft after all, if not, she wouldn't ask, "do you think we could've been friends?"

He doesn't look at her, but she's so familiar with his breathing pattern that she knows he's surprised by the question. He doesn't say anything, instead turns around, his back to her, and tries to fall asleep.

Ash sighs again and closes her eyes. Perhaps, she thinks, she can conjure a Nightmare that puts her restless mind at ease, some place that isn't _so_ dark and with infinite labyrinths.

 _Someplace blue,_ that third of her that had been quiet before whispers.

The second before she falls asleep, she hears in a mutter filled with something like agony and contempt mixed together in a beautiful cocktail made for disaster, "Don't ask me cruel questions," and then.

The witch's hazy mind conjures half-baked images of her, both too young and too old, and Aidan, tall and gangly as ever, and a myriad of sneers, a ton of blood, hair being pulled and the crack of bones, all endless like a snake biting its own tail and she's always thought, would the thing die first of its own venom or of its gluttonous, devouring nature?

She doesn't say she's sorry. Instead, she says, "Newton's third law," and promptly closes her eyes, pretending, for one night, that her conscience is clean enough to let her rest with dreams of blue.

* * *

It's not yet seven in the morning when Wanda wakes up, following the scent of food being made. What she finds in the kitchen it's not what she expects.

"What about this?"

"Too much salt."

"Again? Shit."

Ash is sitting by the counter, eyes scanning the newspaper in an almost bored way, and Aidan is by the stove, doing what it looks like scrambled eggs, occasionally moving from his spot to offer the witch a taste of the food.

"Okay, okay, what about now?"

Ash makes a face, "okay, I _know_ you didn't add more salt, but somehow, it's saltier."

"How," he taps his nose, deep in thought, "does this keep happening?"

"Aidan."

"What?"

"The eggs are burning."

"Shit."

At some point Ash notices Wanda and waves her in with a faint smile.

"Good morning," the witch offers.

"Morning," she replies, taking a seat next to her. She steals a glance at whatever article she's reading- the obituaries. Right. Somehow, she's not surprised.

Aidan finishes throwing the last of the burnt eggs and sighs. Then he turns around and offers Wanda a smile that can only be defined as predatory, and he opens his mouth-

"No," Ash interrupts whatever he's going to say.

"But I-"

"No."

"I was just-"

" _No."_

"Fine," he folds his arms and eyes Wanda again, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, "you're so fucking _territorial_ you know?" He throws at the witch without looking at her, "learn to share."

"Don't even _think_ about it, because I _will_ tear your heart out of your chest and make you eat it before you can die. I _know_ how to."

Aidan hums in a way that's entirely unsettling and places a hand on the countertop, staring straight at Wanda, licks his lips in a way that's almost sinful and-

There's a dagger deep into the wooden surface, right between his index and ring fingers. And yeah, maybe Ash shouldn't have vandalised the countertop because it _is_ mahogany and Tony will probably freak out if he finds out, but still.

" _Fine."_ Aidan finally concedes, taking his hand away from the blade, "fine, God, you're _so fucking territorial._ " He looks back at Wanda, his expression much more neutral now, and says, almost dejectedly, "Good morning, I guess."

"Good morning?" She offers back, unsure of how to feel about him still, or about the exchange that she hasn't been fully able to grasp yet.

"Yes, morning. That," he turns around then, filling a ceramic mug with freshly made coffee from the pot and placing it in front of her.

"Oh, I-" Wanda eyes the mug warily, but since Ash says nothing of it, she assumes it's nothing dangerous. She trusts her friend, after all, "thank you," she takes a sip of the coffee and- "it is... salty?"

" _How?"_ Aidan rubs his nose- a gesture that has a striking resemblance to Ash, Wanda can't help but notice- and lets a sigh escape his lips. "That's it, I give up. Ash."

"Yes, Aidan?"

"Take over breakfast?"

"Take over breakfast what?"

"Take over breakfast," he grimaces, " _please?_ "

The witch smiles- and it looks entirely feline- before getting up and shooing Aidan away from the spot before the stove. The redhead puts his hands up in mock surrender, but other than that he keeps fluttering around her, trying to see what she's doing.

"Isn't that too much batter?"

"No."

"We're three people."

"Trust me, Aidan."

And maybe Wanda thinks that they're going to clash in the reduced space they're in, moreover taking into account the blatant hostility they were harbouring for each other the night before, but the thing is... they don't. Instead, they move with ease around each other, like it's a well-arranged dance, even if the witch slaps his hands away from the batter a few times.

Not long after, the other residents of the Tower start to tickle in, the first being Tony, his hair sticking in odd angles, dark circles under his eyes. Another sleepless night of sciencing for him, then.

"What smells heavenly?" He wonders out loud, occupying the stool Ash was sitting on before. He takes a glance at the newspaper and puts it aside with a grimace and a comment of 'not liking death so early in the morning'.

After him, enter Clint and Natasha, the archer smiling and pointing at the witch, "told you she was cooking," he cheerfully tells his companion.

Natasha narrows her eyes, but still she procures a ten dollar bill from her pocket and hands it to him.

Not five minutes later, Steve enters the room and greets everyone- except, maybe, Aidan, who he just narrows his eyes at- before taking a seat opposite to Tony.

"So," Tony says after the first few strings of small talk, "didn't know our resident witch cooked."

"Really?" Steve stops making a new pot of coffee to answer the millionaire, "you never tried anything Ash made?"

"What, you all knew?" Tony snorts, and then realises the silence that follows his question, "wait, you're telling me you _all_ knew? Really? And- oh my God," he looks back at Ash, only to find her looking back at him over her shoulder, " _you're_ the reason why sometimes I come in here and it smells like heaven and cinnamon?" She only shrugs in response, as if to say _well, yeah, obviously_ , "I knew I wasn't crazy!" And then, "why haven't I tried anything until now?"

"Uh," Steve starts.

"Well-" Wanda twirls a strand of dark her in her fingers.

"It's not that hard to guess-" Natasha informs.

" _Him_ ," Clint jerks his thumb towards a very obviously just-woken-up Pietro in the threshold, his eyes blinking slowly, hair in complete disarray, his focus solely the pan where Ash is flipping over the first pancake, "if you want her cookies, you have to fight him for them- and I _just_ heard how that came out," he grimaces.

Tony snorts, but resumes _his I'm-so-offended_ face an instant later, "I mean, I know you pretty much inhale food around here, Speedy, but really? I pay for everything, give you a loving home, and I don't deserve a single cookie?"

Pietro drags himself across the floor to an empty stool and not for the first time Tony finds himself grateful for buying such a huge counter island, despite Pepper protests that it was disproportionally big to be actually functional.

 _Hah_.

"Not my fault you are slow, Stark," Pietro mutters, voice sleep-ridden.

The conversation lulls to a gentle silence, enough so that the team can hear Aidan say casually, "so, something good on the paper?"

"Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that," Ash replies, while flipping another pancake, "that one guy, the creepy one without eyebrows?"

"Anton?" Aidan's eyes widen, "what, he's dead?"

"Oh. So it wasn't you?" the witch hums, "I mean, he died in a fire and all..."

"Why would I murder someone who owes me money?"

"Right, well, someone did it, probably. Or it was a very poorly timed accident, who knows."

"Ah," Aidan sighs, "That's five grand I'm never seeing again. Don't say 'I told you so'."

"I won't."

"Thanks-"

"But," she interrupts, "if I was going to, I'd say that I _did_ tell you not to lend money to a guy _with no eyebrows_ because chances are-"

"Yes, yes," He pitches his voice higher, "'chances are he's going to end up dead and you won't have your money back, Aidan, don't trust people with no eyebrows, Aidan', yeah, I know."

"Am I," Tony whispers, eyeing the pair, "Am I the only one creeped out by how domestic this scene is?"

"We _can_ hear you, Mr. Stark," Ash replies in an airy voice, while Aidan snorts.

Wanda distracts herself by studying them again; and yes, the sheer domesticness of it all it's more than just a bit odd. Aidan has his hair in a bun and is just wearing a pair of boxers, casually discussing death with Ash, while she's put her hair in a low, messy ponytail, and instead of the dresses and skirts Wanda's used to see her in, she's thrown a shirt that's obviously way too big on her- it keeps falling off her right shoulder, almost reaches her knees- and, judging by the hot pink colour, belongs to the guy next to her.

If before she thought they were oddly comfortable around each other, now she notices they're actually completely in synch; there's another, much meaningful language in the way he puts a plate right where she's flipping a pancake off the pan, in the way she starts to reach for the honey and he's already put it in her hand, in the way he barely takes a step and she's already ducking out of his way.

There's no warmth between them, no affection, but it's not completely cold either. The best she could explain it, it's that it's a lukewarm familiarity, a testament of hours- years, perhaps- spent in each other presence, learning how the other moves, learning to predict what the other will do before they do it.

She's already speaking before she can think it through, "you've... known each other for long, yes?"

Aidan snorts, "that's one way to put it," and when Ash says nothing, his expression sobers, "you didn't tell them?"

"Tell us what?" Clint asks.

" _Oh_. You really didn't tell them! Thought you were into the whole share and care thing now, but, ah... I take back what I said about you getting soft, since you _obviously_ don't share with them even the headlines of your life-"

" _Aidan_ ," she warns.

"-it's not as if it is a big deal or anything, I mean, I've only known you for... ten years?"

" _Eleven_ ," she corrects, "and who I tell or not tell about my life is none of your business, Aidan."

"You wound me."

"I hope it's deep."

He smirks then, and turns his back on the witch, looking straight at Wanda and answering her earlier question in a more direct way, "she's my sister."

"I'm _not_ ," she hurries before anyone says anything else, and it's obvious to everyone the tense line of her shoulders.

"Well, we're not blood related, _thank God_ ," Aidan puts a hand over his heart, "but legally we're-"

"Not since you turned eighteen, and it's virtually impossible to find any proof of that, anyways-"

"Does us growing up together means nothing to you, you cruel excuse for a woman?"

"It _means_ I got to be the first one to break your nose," she mutters, eyes still intent on her task.

"Bitch," he throws back at her.

Her hand itches, then, and she entertains the idle notion of breaking his nose again, maybe putting one of his hands right on top of the flame, and then remembers that they're not alone, that after last night she's not bursting at the seams anymore, and she can _feel_ blue eyes digging in the back of her head, making her want to break something so she doesn't break instead.

"Woah, okay, _these_?" Tony says around a mouthful he steals from Steve's plate "are incredible. Seriously, this is amazing."

There _are_ perks to living with Tony Stark, she things, now completely defused, and considers smuggling one extra pancake into his plate.

* * *

Aidan leaves later that evening. She walks him out of the building, more because she promised she would personally oversee he didn't do anything fishy while the team was gone than because she actually _wanted_ to. He runs a hand throw his hair, and for the first time in a long while, he seems _almost_ vulnerable, Ash notices. Almost.

"Thanks for last night," he says, and for a moment she's not sure if he refers to her treating his wound or... " and..." he flounders, heaving a sigh that leaves her as tired as he looks.

"And... _fuck_ ," he cusses, "fuck Ash, I _tried_ , I actually _tried_ , back then, for two whole days," if he can sense her confusion, he ignores it, "and _you_ -" he stops, takes a deep breath, and straightens; "no," he starts once again, "no, I'm _so_ not doing this."

There's something nagging her, some imaginary exclamation point near the back of her brain, but she can't- won't- consider it, not right now, so instead she says, "try not to get yourself killed."

"Try not to get lost in this whole 'being one of the good guys' charade."

She smiles, tiredly, without any fight left, "talk to you later?"

"Sooner than you may want to," he smiles right back, "heard of a job that might interest you."

She nods, "text me the details later," and then, she licks her lips, "Aidan-" but she stops. It's the same impasse again, and when they push...

She thinks of the bruises she's covered with magic. Looks at the odd angles of his nose.

He starts to walk away, but calls over his shoulder, loud enough so that she can hear him above the noise of New York, "Newton's third law!"

It's later, much later, when her eyes feel like falling out of its sockets after reading for an eternity, sitting at her desk, that Aidan's behaviour, his confession of trying, comes back to her.

And it hits her like a ton of bricks, like what that train all those months ago would have done.

" _Do you think we could've been friends?"_

" _Don't ask me cruel questions."_

She presses her palms to her eyes then, and swears there's a snake coiling around her heart, trying to bite its own tail, and perhaps kill the witch too in the while.

And yet, 'sorry' still doesn't come to her.

* * *

 **OKAY SO this was supposed to be longer, but then Aidan invaded and it's been so long since I've updated that I managed to finish the chapter at- well it's currently 1.30 am because you guys deserve something at least, sooo...**


	11. Chapter 11

**I forgot to say that formofjane did another polyvore set based on Ash, go stalk her polyvore now (same username), bc she deserves it.**

 **IMPORTANT I opened a tumblr again- posted some super messy art on Ash. Just look for me under mshoneytea. You can ask stuff if you want about the story or whatever.**

* * *

 **Chapter XI**

 _ **The Joys of Modern Communication Devices**_

 **(In which Aidan appears again because a lovely reader has a thing for him.)**

* * *

"Our birthday is in three weeks."

Ash pauses, looks at the folded dress in her hands, and then over her shoulder at Wanda.

"I know," the witch answers.

"Will you be back by then, yes?"

And she'd love to say that yeah, probably, that she wouldn't miss it for anything in the world, but she's not going to make promises she can't keep, so she just shrugs one shoulder and resumes packing.

"What... What is it that you will do?"

"Just some work for Malcolm. Remember that time after the art exhibition?"

"Yes, but-" Wanda sighs, arms crossed over her chest, " _what_ will you do?"

Only then Ash grasps what the other girl is really trying to ask, and she smiles softly. Her big, bleeding heart.

"It's not dangerous," she tries to assure, "a bit boring, but nothing more than that."

"And why are you not saying to the others you'll leave?"

"I'm telling you, and you tell them."

" _Ash-"_

" _Wanda,"_ the witch interrupts, making a grimace, "you know how they'll get. 'Are you completely sure you're ready?', 'Malcolm is a shady guy', 'but how long exactly?', 'bring back something cool'," she mocks, "that last one was Mr. Stark, just in case you didn't get it."

"I did got it," the Sokovian girl chuckles, "but you _are_ practically running away."

"Tactical retreat," she corrects, lips pursed, "and it's just a job, seriously, it may not take as long as I think in the first place," she sighs, "look, I... I swear I'll try everything in my power to come back in time for your birthday, okay?"

And not really, it's not okay, because Wanda can tell the witch is still nervous to go back to her magic whole-headedly again, and she's going to be some _place_ , doing some _thing_ , and when the rest of the team comes back later and she relies Ash's message to them, they're going to badger _her_ with questions she has no answers to.

Still, she just says 'okay', and hugs her goodbye before she leaves.

* * *

At first, it's easy to forget the witch isn't really there; even after the huge leaps at socialising she's done in the recent past, she's still mostly a recluse, especially during her work hours, however odd they happen to be.

If she's working, it's pretty common not to see her in a couple of days, perhaps just a passing greeting in the kitchen.

(Tony still entertains his theory of her being a ghost, albeit a much more tangible one, now.)

Ash's never been loud, never in the way- unless someone or something ticks her off- and yet... it's like another brand of silence, heavier and emptier, settles a few days after she's gone; there is no soft footfalls at the small hours of the morning, no muttering around corners with a head full of white waves shaking or nodding as she talks to herself, no clinking of the metal spoon against the ceramic mug on the days she's running mostly on caffeine and willpower and the trembling of her hands precedes- if only by a minute or so- one of several voices edging her to ' _go to sleep before those dark circles stay permanently on your skin'_.

Oddly enough, it's the absence of anything 'witchy' and potentially lethal in the most common of places that make the other residents start to show the notice of her absence in one way or another.

(On the other side, it's the absolute lack of anything remotely cookie-scented that actually makes the other residents to properly _miss_ her, even if some are more willing to say it than others.)

* * *

It's only after much debating with himself- _'what if something's happened?'; 'don't be an idiot you're probably just annoying her'_ \- that Pietro actually types the number his sister left on his nightstand and writes:

' _is everything alright?'_

He doesn't get a reply in the next few minutes. Or the next few hours. He actually doesn't get a reply at all- no matter how many times he frowns at his phone- until well into the following day, and even so, he gets a simple, ' _Yes.'_

He almost puts the phone back in his pocket when it buzzes again, not a full ten seconds later:

' _Shouldn't it be?'_

And then,

' _Did Mr. Stark touch anything he shouldn't?'_

He snorts at that, firstly because he notices she uses proper punctuation and grammar even while texting, secondly because he can perfectly picture the changes or her facial expressions while writing; from off-handed surprise at having someone text her not work-related things, to a slight frown of perhaps-worry, and finally the narrowing of her eyes at thinking of Tony touching things he shouldn't. Maybe with the thing she does where she flattens one corner of her lips when labelling something as Not-Approved.

(There's a voice, tiny, in his head, that sings about the odd thing that is, or that should be, to imagine her exact reactions even if she's- possibly- miles away, but he quiets it down, says it's no big deal, that she's actually quite expressive once you get the very basics on anything Ash-related.)

' _i was just checking'_

She doesn't answer back and he loses a fight with himself when hours later, he's typing again,

' _do you know when you will be back?'_

' _No.'_

He sighs and gets busies himself with a much needed shower, telling himself that she _is_ busy, that it's the middle of one of her 'jobs', and she probably doesn't have time to text non-work-related-people.

* * *

Three days later- and with no other update of the witch-, Pietro congratulates himself on having kept busy enough so as to avoid the little voice in his head that says that missing the witch is a Very Big Deal.

Until that very same night, in which he can't seem to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. He walks into the kitchen, half expecting to find the witch in a corner, reading something quietly, maybe muttering to herself, and Pietro has to reprimand the pang of disappointment that threatens to rise.

Still, it's hard not to think about her, when in between grabbing a mug and heating up water it's her voice that he recalls, _'chamomile, valerian and lavender are used for de-stressing and help falling asleep'_ , her body stretching as she barely reaches the pantry to leave the different herbs inside, _'the way your body seems to work, just take twice the dosage I wrote on the labels'_. Pietro smiles at the memory, he'd asked her why was she leaving them there, and she'd simply shrugged and say that, well, sometimes, when she walks the halls at night, she can listen to the lot of them tossing and turning at the occasional nightmare.

( _'See? You are not as bad as you like to think you are'_ , he'd say, ' _please, don't pretend to understand the convoluted twistings of my damned soul'_ , she'd answered smiling.)

It's only after he turns around, mug of freshly brewed tea in hand, that he realises that in fact, he's not alone; there's a shape by the couch, a sort of tangible shadow lifting the cushions and extending smokey tendrils to...

Look for loose change?

Pietro reaches for his phone and snaps a picture, the flash making the creature turn around and scurry away with a hiss, not without actually _throwing_ the change in Pietro's general direction.

' _the monster under the bed is not under the bed'_

' _and name it something less long'_

He doesn't really expect a reply, but he gets one ten minutes later nevertheless.

' _What?'_

Pietro just forwards the image he took.

' _Oh. I'll need to keep in check its hoarding tendencies. Thanks.'_

And that makes him sigh at the finality of the message, so he puts the phone back in his pocket, finishes his tea, and goes back to bed.

When he wakes up the next morning, there is an unread text on his phone that arrived an hour or so after he started to feel the pull of dreamland on him.

' _And go to bed, Steve will be angry with you if you're tired in the morning.'_

Running a hand throw his already dishevelled hair, he lets the warm feeling settle inside him and admits- just to himself- that yeah, alright, it's not Nothing, not really.

It's definitely Something.

* * *

Ash is a slow texter, he finds out, never answering back in less than an hour or so. He also finds out he doesn't really mind, not on the days when she's on the mood for talking.

* * *

' _Are you sure they're supposed to be funny?'_

' _you have no sense of humour'_

' _Must be one of the tangents of selling your soul to the dark forces.'_

' _i dont know if youre joking or not and its scary'_

' _But really, why is a cat with bad English skills asking for food funny?'_

' _...Are you, perhaps, identifying with the cat?'_

' _what? noo!'_

' _You're sure? I mean, I can see the similarities, what with the language barrier and you always eating.'_

' _Although if I was going to go for an animal for you I'd say a dog fits you better.'_

' _you just called me a dog'_

' _Yes. Also, I need to go wash bloodstains out of a skirt.'_

* * *

"Any updates on our favourite witch?"

Pietro looks at Tony, who's yawning behind his hand.

"She needs to wash blood out of her clothes," the young man replies.

"Lovely," Tony mutters, "I was thinking more along the lines of any updates on where is she, or what is her job, or if she's coming back any time soon, Sonic."

Pietro shrugs at him, and goes back to devouring the last of his cereal, when a thought occurs to him, and he looks back at the millionaire, "how did you know I talk to her?"

"Well," he half-smiles, "here's when I pretend I don't see you smile at the screen of your phone, right?"

* * *

' _Please tell your brother to stop sending me pictures of cats who speak English incorrectly. Or cats in general. I don't really like cats.'_

Wanda re-reads the message, untying her hair with her free hand. She snorts, and types, ' _He's doing what now?'_

' _Terrorising me with poor feline humour? Frankly, it's a little bit racist.'_

' _*How* is that racist, Ash?'_

' _The cat-witch stereotype.'_

' _You seem in a good mood'_

' _I had a good day. Cat stereotypes notwithstanding.'_

* * *

Half the time, she ignores the buzzing of her phone; it's not that it truly bothers her, but in all honestly she _is_ busy, and answering back requires of her to stop thinking of deciphering ancient demonic tongues and honestly? She can't afford a mistake, not in this case. Stealing a look at her wrist watch, she notices Aidan's out of the coffee shop, and hands her a steaming cup of espresso and a doughnut.

"Any brilliant ideas on how to get the meeting to go the best way possible?"

Ash shrugs with one shoulder, and bites into the doughnut, "besides honing my translator skills to the maximum and being perfectly pleasant and civil? No."

"That's a shame," Aidan mutters around the lid of his cappuccino, "I mean, do you think you can actually make this? It's not that long since you got better from your, ah..." he trails off.

"Demonic-eating-contest?"

"Ha! And they say you're terribly dull!" He chuckles.

"Who says that?"

"Half the people you make business with. The other half usually end up too terrified to form a proper opinion."

The witch hums at that, but voices no discrepancy on the matter. Instead, she says, "and yes, I _can_ make this, I'm not even going to have to use any blood magic, anyways," she rolls her eyes, "but thanks for the vote of confidence, Aidan."

He stops walking then, "it's not _that_ , it's just that if things go south- and they _can_ go south, are you sure you can face one of those insect-fiends whatever?"

"As long as they remain insect and not arachnid," she mutters, and then, louder, "Malcolm will be there. Why are you so concerned anyways?"

Aidan starts walking again, tapping a finger against his chin in an almost absent way, "do you even know how hard is to find the perfect mix of unscrupulous yet at the same time with no power-hungry delusions? There's a fine line between the immoral and the downright dangerous to associate with. And that could make for terrible partnership."

She nods, her eyes widening with enlightenment, "ah, I suppose it _is_ way better to work with the devil you know," she takes another bite of her doughnut, "the same way, I wouldn't be able to trust anyone that was like you, _unless_ it's you."

"Trust is a big of a stretch, I'd think."

"It _does_ sound better than 'I know exactly what makes you tick in a way that's more than just a bit disturbing and so I can trust myself to know the extent of your probable damage'. It's also less of a mouthful."

"I'd use another word anyways."

"Do tell," the witch drawls.

Aidan stops once again and looks at her, a full grin stretching his mouth, and states, " _synergy_ ".

"Aidan," Ash rolls her eyes, "you don't know what that means, do you?"

"Nope," he pops the sound, "but three out of five business executives throw it around constantly."

He goes on a tangent, but the witch stops listening to his rambling when a flash of blue is registered by her peripheral vision and there's a minute in which her heart jumps to her throat because there are certain things, lines, between her work and... whatever relationships she's starting to build that should not be crossed- not even met, under any circumstances.

She calms herself, rationalising that if the Avengers were in Prague, she'd heard of it already, and searches for the source of the blue.

It's the image of pathetic, with matted fur and ribs so protruding she can perfectly count them, trembling in the slight drizzle. She kneels and puts the rest of her doughnut near its muzzle and watches the thing chomp it down so fast that she's forced to shoo comparisons of people who practically inhale food that fast from her mind, for the sake of her sanity.

"Since when do you like dogs?" Aidan asks her, at some point over her shoulder, and she just tentatively offers her hand at the animal. It takes a whiff at her scent and at first she's sure it's going to growl upon discovering the darkness of her- because however angelic she looks, animals never really liked her- but instead, the mutt nuzzles its head against her palm and then looks at her with those blue eyes, so pleading, so, _so_ , blue...

"I don't," she answers quickly, and estimates how many days there are left before picking the puppy up in her arms- it barely weights, being mostly bones and different shades of brown fur.

"Well what are you doing then?"

Instead of answering, she asks back, "what were you saying about synergy? That seemed pretty interesting."

* * *

' _Do fleas bite humans too?'_

' _did you got bitten by fleas...?'_

' _Possibly.'_

' _how?'_

' _That's... none of your business.'_

' _it is when you ask me'_

' _There might be a flea-infested mongrel in my vicinity.'_

' _dont call a dog mongrel'_

' _I don't really like dogs.'_

' _i think we should consider not talking anymore'_

' _At least that will stop the constant humourless felines thrown my way.'_

' _heartless'_

* * *

' _Are you busy?'_

' _I was going to buy a dress, why?'_

' _Arent you working?'_

' _A work dress. Has something happened?'_

' _No, but my brother is muttering about flea-infested heartless witches who don't understand jokes'_

' _He would be.'_

' _Do I want to know?'_

' _Probably not. Is everything else alright?'_

' _Yes, I mean, I_ do _miss you'_

' _I'm sure the others miss you too'_

' _You think you will be back for our birthday?'_

' _I don't know. I'll try. I'm sorry.'_

' _That's okay'_

' _I did get you a present, though.'_

* * *

"Who are you texting to so much?"

"In case you didn't notice, I'm _reading_ , not texting," her eyes doesn't really leave the words she's memorising.

"Yeah, well, your phone hasn't stopped buzzing in a while, you know?"

"I didn't notice."

"Who texts you so much, anyways? Besides drunk me, I mean."

"Don't be nosy," she reaches for her phone across the table before Aidan can, and scrolls across the myriad of cat pictures, not bothering to answer back.

"Is it that cute girl?"

"Who?"

"You know," Aidan gestures towards his own head, "dark hair, doe eyes, wears a lot of red...?"

"Oh," she blinks, "Wanda?"

"Yeah, that one," he smirks, "you sure you're not sleeping with her?"

"She's my _friend_ , Aidan."

"You," he points an accusing finger, charged with hostility " _don't_ have friends. Acquaintances you don't hate? Sure, but never friends."

"Well there's a first for everything," she replies, not without a decent amount of bitterness in her voice, "and are you sure that's where you want to go before the first big meeting tomorrow?"

He defuses in an instant, "I guess we should direct all of our latent aggression and convert it into assertiveness," he muses.

"You need to stop reading so many 'Some-Rich-CEO keys for success' types of books."

* * *

'so which one are u'

'wait dnt tell me'

'ur the other twin right'

'the fast one'

Pietro starts at his phone in confusion but doesn't get to type an answer before the texts keep coming under the witch's contact name.

'so ur the one that texts ash all day huh'

'shit thats a lot of cat memes'

'u know ash doesn't like cats right'

He narrows his eyes, there's something in that obnoxious speech pattern that's familiar in an unsettling way, almost as if the one who's writing goes out of their way to rub people the wrong way.

'btw ash fell asleep and i stole her phone lol'

The next text is actually a picture, half a face with a grin stretched over pale lips and a ridiculous shade of red hair on one half of the picture; a blurry image of a table and the body of a girl slumped over a chair, and suddenly Pietro feels like murdering something that has red hair.

' _is she not going to be angry with you?'_

' _4 stealin her phone? nah'_

' _probz irritated tho'_

' _u haven't seen angry ash btw'_

' _its like, 1.50 mts of pure chaos'_

' _a maelstrom of blood n pain'_

' _ppl usually die when she gets angry'_

' _tho its hard 2 tell when she looks like this sleepin'_

The next picture Pietro gets is luckily Aidan-free this time, and just show the witch slumped against the chair, neck bent sideways in what looks like a painful angle, hair twisted in a messy bun a top of her head, and, of course, mountains of papers in front of her.

(The bright green shirt she's wearing, the _only_ thing she's wearing, is a bit hard to ignore both in colour and the way that falls from her right shoulder, but Pietro tries, anyways, because if not he'd probably say something petty and very stupid.

Something like her looking better in blue.)

* * *

'Sorry about Aidan.'

Pietro doesn't answer back, and though he feels a bit guilty, he can't help but keep picturing that terrible bright green that didn't quite reach her mid-thigh, and wonder about the easy nature of her relationship with the redhead that allows her to parade around in such an attire without much qualms.

Granted, the logical side of him rationalises that she's never seemed bothered by the concept of nudity and that to her, a body is probably an ensemble of organs and tissue and bones and blood ( _lots of blood_ ); but he's always been more emotional than logical, anyways, so he chucks his phone in the general direction of his bed and goes out for a run.

* * *

' _Happy birthday, I'm sorry I'm not there- the job got extended a few more days.'_

' _You can make it up to me when you get back, buy me a new dress maybe'_

' _Wanda. You have a lot of dresses.'_

' _And you don't?'_

' _I'll pretend you're not looking all too smug right now. Did my birthday gift arrive yet?'_

' _No, is it just for me or my brother too?'_

' _You'll (plural) have to learn to share.'_

* * *

"That's a lot of cake," Clint comments, "you _did_ put your order right, right?"

Tony rolls his eyes and gestures towards the blue-silver-black-and-red confection, "yes, _mom,_ " he answers, "do you even live here? You know how much Speedy over there eats?"

"Good point," and then, "ten bucks says he finishes it by tomorrow this hour."

"Make it fifteen, and I say tomorrow _morning_ ," he eyes Pietro then, and lowers his voice, "and speaking of bets, I have a theory about- wait what's _that?"_ he trails off, suddenly looking past the archer and at the door, where a newly arrived Captain America is standing with his arms full of-

"That's a puppy, Tony," Clint throws, "I _know_ you're all about machines, but even you should recognise a dog."

Steve throws them a look, but other than that he walks straight towards the twins- who stop focusing on the cake and start staring at the dog the instant they see it- and offers it to the first one who extend their arms-Wanda- while Pietro works his mouth open several times without managing to force a single sound out.

"I- What?" He finally settles for, one hand caressing the small animal's head.

"Ash sends it, apparently," the soldier fishes an envelope from his jacket, "comes with a note, uh," he stops upon noticing both siblings completely taken with the dog, "I'll just read it aloud, I guess," he mutters, and then opens the envelope; " _Aidan has been calling him 'that fleabag you brought in', but I'm sure you both will find that terrible in so many ways, so just name him whatever. I managed to get read of_ _all_ _most of the fleas and made him a little less miserably scrawny. He still needs his shots though. Oh and happy birthday... I'm sorry I didn't make it."_

Whatever previous pettiness Pietro had been holding suddenly leaves him in a rush of air.

"I can't believe she remembered," he mutters in Sokovian, more to himself than to anyone else.

"I do," Wanda replies in the same language, "she cares more than what she'd like, probably."

"This is all so very sweet and all," Tony raises his voice from the other side of the room, "but it'd be nice to be asked if I want a dog in here when _I'm the owner of the place_!"

Clint pats his shoulder, "let the kids have their puppy, Tony."

"I just don't like when someone invalidates my feelings, alright?"

* * *

The witch blinks sleepily and with a hiss massages her neck- falling asleep while working was definitely not a good habit to foment- while looking for whatever had pulled her from the sleeping world. With a creased brow, she finally identifies the constant buzzing of her phone as the disturber and almost-blindly fetches it and takes the call.

"Hello?" She stifles a yawn.

"You got us a dog."

Ash starts at the accented voice and a part of herself- the part that always insists her on not allowing anyone to get close- considers just hanging up and throwing the phone as far away as she can.

She doesn't.

And then, because she doesn't really know what to say;

"Yes."

A heartbeat of silence, "thank you, I-" she can hear Pietro sighing, "just... thank you."

She manages to produce a vague sound that could be very well taken as either a 'you're welcome' or 'whatever'.

"We still need to think of a name..." he trails off when she actually yawns, "did I wake you up?"

"Yes," she manages, "but I'd fallen asleep in a poorly-chosen place, so you made me a favour, I suppose."

"Did you fall asleep while reading?"

"Maybe," a pause, and more quietly, "yes."

He laughs, throaty and open and Ash closes her eyes tightly at the sound, contorting her face in a wince. It's not fair, it honestly isn't.

"What time is it over there?"

The witch stands up, stretches her stiff muscles, "Not sure," she admits, "late?"

She lays down on the couch- it's ridiculously comfortable and a deep velvety green- and can practically _feel_ the heavy silence that settles at the other side of the line.

"Should I let you sleep?" It's casual, a bit _too_ casual, and maybe the corners of her mouth quirk upwards at the notion that he's nervous about the question.

"No," she shrugs even if he can't see her, "I'm already awake anyways, and I could use a breather from- ah, everything Aidan."

"Oh," and because sometimes he's brutally honest, "I don't think I like him."

She doesn't laugh- she's too stressed, too exhausted- but the sentiment is the same, or so she thinks, "yeah, well," she settles her head on one of the cushions, "you and pretty much everyone else."

"I don't know how you can stand him."

"Can we not talk about that?"

"He doesn't look like a good guy-"

"He isn't."

"Then why-"

"I'm not really _good_ myself either, in case you haven't noticed."

She runs a hand through her hair, can feel him breathing on the other side, can picture him trying to think of a thousand reasons to convince her otherwise and _now_ she does feel like laughing. Or crying. Any of those would be good.

" _Ash_..." It's hesitant and just short of pleading, and she can't stomach it, honestly.

"You don't really know me, not really," she licks her lips, "you have no idea what kind of jobs I've taken, what kind of... _people_ , I deal with on a daily basis, you _don't know_ what sort of person I am..."

There's a moment of pause.

"You're not as bad as you think you are."

"I'm a blood witch!" She berates herself for her outburst, gone are the half-serious replies with a dose of self-deprecating humour, "that _alone_ should speak for what I'm willing to do, how many morals I can throw away without blinking and-"

"I helped an evil robot try to destroy the world."

She's starting to feel tired again, her eyes are starting to blur... or maybe those are just tears.

"You aren't as bad as you want to believe, Ash."

He sounds so sure, so certain, and now she knows those were actually tears, "I have work to do," she mutters.

" _Ash-"_

She hangs up then, and stares at the ceiling, blinking silent tears away. She does have work to do. She should get up.

Instead, she falls asleep with salty trails on her cheeks.

* * *

It's nearing midnight when Tony decides to take a break from his lab and grab some food from the kitchen. The Tower is silent- by this time, most of its residents are in their own bedrooms. He pads down the hallway and just passes through the kitchen threshold when his ears pick up the elevator working, and a quick question to FRIDAY confirms that yes, that's their tiny witch coming back... home? He briefly toys around with the notion, but waves it away instantly, reading himself against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a witty retort of a prodigal daughter-

But that all dies in his throat when she steps into the hallway.

He can tell she had been hoping for solitude the moment she catches his eye and stops dead in her tracks, body going stiff.

"What-" He tries, licks his lips, and then vaguely gestures in her direction.

She's wearing some sort of elegant lacy dress- or that's what it would have been a lifetime ago, now it was torn and what seemed _burnt_ in places, and even in the darkness Tony could tell the witch was completely covered in blood, holding one of her sides in pretty much the same way he's seen agents with injured ribs do. Even her hair has a stiffly sticky look on it, a reddish hue, and her lower lip looks thicker than usual.

"I've... had a _very_ long day..." Her voice sounds off, gritty, and he wants to say 'no shit', but he can't, not really, not when the mix of burnt hair and the metallic scent of blood are attacking his nose, revolting his stomach.

He can only watch her, wide-eyed, as she sort-of-limps down the hallway.

* * *

 **The end of this was originally going to be happier but then I thought- but what if SAD WITCH.**

 **As usual, thanks for the favs, follows and reviews.**


	12. Chapter 12

**(If anyone else watches GoT and has already seen the second episode of this season, feel free to come screaming at my inbox. Also, Civil War. Scream at my inbox about Civil War.)**

 **Also I realised that I may or may not have a slight crush on Scarlet Witch myself, so thank you Elizabeth Olsen for making me consider the possibility of bisexuality? I guess.**

 **WHATEVER-**

* * *

CHAPTER XII

Nearing the Edge

(Alternatively: The Downwards Spiral of Angst.)

* * *

She finishes retching into the sink and grabs the cold hard edges, musing that her knuckles would probably be white, if it wasn't for all the red covering them.

There's so, so much blood, and she's used to that, to blood and guts and death and _pain_ ; it's oddly enough the smell of burnt hair that's upsetting her stomach, and she would laugh if her body wasn't threatening to give up on her. Burnt hair makes her think of Aidan, of anger and cruelty and him holding her hair in a death grip over the kitchen stove, of a sighing Malcolm and a hurried run to the hairdresser who bought the stories of a clumsy girl trying to lit the fireplace without tying her hair, who tried to console a crying Ash saying that _'short hair makes you look more refined anyways, hun'_.

But burnt hair also makes her think of her mother, and that's why the hairdresser saw her crying, and that's why her stomach revolts at the scent.

Her mother is never good news.

Ash raises her head, stares at her reflection and bites her tongue to avoid screaming because what she sees are eyes that flicker between black and red and a too-wide smile filled with pointy teeth that barely part to let a bifid tongue through.

(There's a part of her, cold, clinical, that takes in her racing heart, her shortness of breath, the tingling on her arms, the pain in her chest, and concludes, detachedly, that she's having a panic attack.)

(The second in her life, after the first time her mother started pumping poison through her veins.)

She needs to get out of here. She needs to tear the dress away from her, to rub her skin red until the blood and grime and _smell_ comes off, she need the gashes on her back to stop throbbing, she needs her arms to stop feeling leaden.

She needs to get out of here.

This place has too much darkness inside, too many dark whispers; what should be a safe place is now a prison and she doesn't want to get trapped inside, alone, terrified.

A quick knock on her door makes her tear her eyes from her reflection and she swallows a whine; a thousand ideas of what terrible creature could be behind the wood already formed, only to suddenly empty her brain upon hearing Wanda's voice.

"Ash? Tony came to my room and said you might need my help?"

 _Well_ , the part of the witch that tries to latch onto logic thinks, _they don't call him a genius for nothing, after all_.

And she wants to answer back, she really wants to, but her throat is dry and her tongue made of sandpaper and she makes the mistake of looking into the mirror again... except this time what she sees it's much worse.

It could be her, with the same soft features and steel eyes; it could be her... if it wasn't for the dark hair, for the near dead expression. Ash has always resented looking so much like her mother.

She closes her eyes, hard, and covers her face with her palms for good measure, anything, _anything_ to put a barrier between herself and that terrible vision, and next thing she knows there are gentle hands prying her arms away, holding the sides of her face, asking _what happened?_ And she still wants to answer Wanda but can only manage to shake her head.

The other girl is still talking, but Ash can't really understand her words, until-

"We need to get you clean, yes?"

 _Yes_ , she begs, _yes, there's too much blood and she hates this dress,_ and then her eyes open wide when she watches Wanda go to her bathtub.

"Not here," the witch croaks, "I can't- I don't want to be here."

She expects to be asked more questions, but instead Wanda simply takes her by the hand and _smuggles_ her across the hall and into her room, her bathroom, without anyone bothering them.

(Ash has never been particularly religious, but she thinks that if angels are real, then they must be like Wanda, warm and smart and so much more than what she deserves.)

Wanda helps her out of the terrible dress, muttering apologies every time it sticks to dried blood, and then turns towards the tub to leave the witch at least a semblance of privacy to take off her underwear by herself while she readies the bath.

When she's done, she crosses her arms over her chest, not because she's self-conscious about nudity- she never has been-, but because is the only thing she can think of to keep herself together.

 _Breathe, in, out, in, out..._

For some time now she's noticed herself unravelling, her mind stretching, and she's not sure how much longer before she snaps, breaks, shatters in pieces.

 _In, out, in, out..._

And she thanks whatever superior entity there is out there, because maybe it's not being alone, or not being in her room, or the bathtub filled to the brim with warm bubbles and the scent of lavender she's come to associate with Wanda, but the panic attack is fading now, and she feels a bit more like herself, a bit less like a hollow shell filled with nothing but poison and despair.

Ash lets Wanda help her into the tub, hissing as the water comes in contact with the wounds on her back, and sits there in silence while the other girl sits on the edge, right behind her head, and moves the mass of hair to inspect the gashes.

"They're not deep," Ash informs, "just ugly and sting a lot."

She can't see her but she's sure Wanda nods, "any other wounds that are as bad?"

"No," and then she recounts, because making lists calm her, "I've got a busted lip, bruised ribs and some scratches and bruises in general. Maybe my ankle's twisted, but nothing's broken as far as I can tell," she licks her lips, and then, lower, "and a bit of my hair got burnt."

"Okay," Wanda rummages around behind her, "this might sting," she warns, before setting to disinfecting the three long gashes- they look like they were made by claws- and she hoped Ash would at least hiss in discomfort, but she's completely still, completely silent.

"You okay?" Wanda asks, then she realises it's a bit of a dumb question, and adds, "with the sting?"

Ash laughs a bit, sort of shrugs with one shoulder, "I've had much worse, I can _take_ much worse."

Wanda wills her heart not to break upon the conviction of the witch's voice in that truth. Just what exactly ' _much worse'_ means to her? Instead of voicing her thoughts, she just finishes with her back and passes a sponge to the witch, who instantly starts scrubbing at her skin. If her movements seem a little slower and jerkier than usual, if every few movements her attention is back into cleaning her hands, Wanda ignores it and instead focuses on shampooing her thick hair.

For a while, they're both silent, until Wanda casually comments, "I've never see you wear black before."

She can tell how Ash's shoulders tense, the smallest sigh escapes her lips, and she halts her motions altogether- her skin is rubbed red at this point, anyways.

"I don't," and then she admits, "my mother wore black and I-" she sighs again," I _hate_ wearing black."

She blows at the bubbles a bit, and Wanda rinses her hair, noticing how the water that runs is pink. She squishes more shampoo on her hand.

At some point, between the warmth and the gentle movements massaging her scalp, between a the sense of safety and the scent of lavender, something tight, coiled, begins to unwind inside of the witch, and she realises her friend hasn't asked anything, not really, and yeah, maybe she can't help the tears that sting at the corner of her eyes, and still...

"It was for the job," she confesses, and with that she can't stop herself, "it wasn't even supposed to be that hard, just... delicate. There was this guy and he wanted us to draw a contract for a group of, uh, fiends, think like really big, black, mantis, with knife-like edges all over. Well, they don't really speak any human language but were interested in learning more of this world and aren't really that aggressive, just... easy to offend.

So Malcolm was supposed to draw a contract, and I was supposed to act as a translator and the first few meetings were _fine!_ Everything was in order and all parties were playing nice, and then-" she huffs, " _then_ , right on the last meeting, before everything was signed, the stupid, _stupid_ excuse of a man decided to press the things further because, heh, why _not try and one-up a bunch of fiends at the last minute?_ Turns out, it doesn't matter they don't speak the language, they still get the general meaning of insults."

"What happened then?"

"Huge fight," she sighs, " _bloody_ fight. There were... gunshots, and, and the screeching those things made, I just-" she swallows, puts her thoughts in order, "I've seen pretty messed up stuff. I've hurt people, _killed_ people, I shouldn't be this affected, but it was- I mean... It was the first time I've seen Malcolm bleed."

"What happened to the guy?"

"Dead in the first two minutes. One of the fiends slashed his neck right through. And then attacked us. They're all dead, of course, you just, you don't make Malcolm bleed and expect nothing to happen. But it was so _messy_. I don't like messy."

With that, she falls silent again, and Wanda wonders if she should say something, and what could she say? Nothing, really, and knowing Ash doesn't mind silence, most times welcomes it, she rinses her hair one last time and start to apply conditioner.

And that's when she finds the burnt hair.

It's not too terrible, honestly, it's just a thick lock, behind her ear, that's been burnt to a length that doesn't quite reach her shoulder, it should be fine if she just cut the ends and it was easy to hide.

But... she _does_ need more colour...

Twisting the hair in her finger, she opens her mouth to propose an idea- and that's when the door swings open.

Ash jumps slightly, making some water slosh out of the tub, and she doesn't have to crane her neck to see who intrudes, not when Wanda's suddenly yelling in very irritated Sokovian, when the same accent yells back, and the witch maybe buries herself a bit more into the bubbles, because if there's anyone who she doesn't want to see her like this, it's him.

The door closes again, and Wanda huffs, rinsing the conditioner out of the witch's hair.

"Sorry about that," she says, "my brother doesn't know boundaries sometimes."

Ash doesn't know if Wanda's referring to the fact that she's nude, in a bathtub- because that's ridiculous, it's not that big of a deal, and there are bubbles everywhere anyways-, or to the fact that she's hurt and vulnerable and pretty much cracked open.

She's pretty sure it's the second one.

"It's alright," Ash sort of shrugs again, letting Wanda start to untangle her hair with her fingers, "I know he means well."

"That, he does," Wanda chuckles, "he worries a lot, Pietro. I told him to make himself useful and go get some clothes for you."

"Thank you."

Once she's done with her hair- and has trimmed the burnt ends of that lock of hair-, Wanda leaves the witch alone in the bathroom, to allow her a minute or two of privacy while she gets her some underwear- because she's pretty sure that her brother keeps _some_ boundaries intact, even in the frantic state he appeared to be.

She opens the door to her room, and runs face-first into her brother, who's peering over her into the empty bedroom with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Wanda sighs.

"What happened?" He asks in Sokovian, brows furrowing.

"Her job went awry."

"But what-?"

"You'll have to ask her yourself, Pietro," Wanda tries to step around him, but he doesn't let her, "stop hovering! You always did it to me, now you're doing it to her too!"

"But her _back-_ "

"It looks worse than what it was. Listen," she put a hand on his shoulder, "I know you're worried, I know you care, but think if she really needs someone breathing down her neck right now."

He sighs, "you're right, it's just I-" he trails off, pushes the clothing into her arms, "I asked Natasha to get some underwear for Ash."

"Oh," that saved her a trip. And she had been right about certain boundaries.

"Let me know if she needs anything else?"

Wanda nods, and she's certain, at that point, that if she asked her brother for a square watermelon for the witch, he would actually run himself all the way to Japan and back.

Once again in her room, she closes the door behind her and sets the clothes on her bed, only to smile at the blue fabric. She briefly wonders if his brother realises how transparent he is.

* * *

"Wanda?"

"Yes?" She finishes putting on her pair of soft cotton shorts and looks at the witch. She tries to hide a smile.

"Is this-?" Ash gestures towards the blue hoodie that dwarfs her she's just put on, "is this your brother's?"

"Yes," Wanda replies, "I asked him to bring something comfortable, maybe I should have been clearer?"

The witch snorts, and stretches her arms in front of her, watching the way the sleeves cover her hands and some more, with a look between intrigued and distrustful, "well, as far as _comfort_ goes, I suppose it _is_ comfortable." And soft. And so incredibly _warm._

As they push back the covers and climb into bed, Wanda briefly wonders if _Ash_ realises how transparent her brother is.

* * *

She wakes up in a tangle, arms and legs draped over one another, nose pressed against smooth skin. She inhales lavender.

Even though she's woken up three times now, it's still dark; the only difference now is that she hasn't dragged Wanda from dreamland this time. Softly, she disentangles herself, trying not to wake her- she's probably earned a piece of heaven to herself now, comforting a crying, hysterical witch two times so far- and takes a minute to watch her.

Even sleeping she looks gentle. Ash know what she can do, she's seen her in action before; she's a force of nature if she wants to.

She just _chooses_ to be kind.

She's wondered sometimes, before, like now, what would happen if she were to kiss her; sometimes, like now, she wants to. Something soft, and sweet, and easy; just pressing lips together.

(Every time, Ash gets a gut feeling that no, she shouldn't, and she doesn't want to anyways, not really.

At this point, she knows she loves Wanda, and yeah, she's beautiful, but it's not like that, they're not like that, and it's probably just her emotionally stunted heart trying to show affection and not really knowing how.)

Sighing, she gets off the bed in silence, her throat suddenly dry, and pads down the floor intent on going to the kitchen and drowning a couple glasses of water- and she stops when she opens the door.

She looks at the form of Pietro slumped against the wall, head lolled against the side- that must be uncomfortable-, softly snoring, and to the puppy sleeping soundly on his lap, who's also snoring.

The witch tries to close the door silently behind her, and winces when it creaks slightly, the noise rousing the dog, and the dog rousing the man, and he's suddenly blinking slowly, trying to focus, and she can't help but snort softly.

"There's a joke in here about guard dogs somewhere," she mutters.

"I don't know," he replies in between yawns, "you don't understand humour," and then he stops, and cranes his neck upwards, eyes on her, gaze suddenly awake and sharp.

Her throat feels drier.

She doesn't let him actually say anything, instead gestures towards the general direction of the kitchen, and starts walking without really waiting to see if he understood the message.

She doesn't turn around either when she hears his bare feet following her.

Inside the kitchen it's better, _easier,_ it's known territory and she can put her thoughts in order there. They're still in silence when she starts to heat up water on the kettle, still silent when she tries to reach for the tea she's left on the cupboard- _tries_ , because something, her ribs or her back or maybe both, throbs and makes her hiss, and he simply reaches with the hand not holding the dog and puts all the jars on the counter in front of her.

She wonders at exactly what point he started to know what she wants (needs?) before she says it. Five minutes after starting whatever Game they were playing before, probably.

Or maybe she's just become _that_ transparent.

"So," she starts, while putting chamomile in a strainer, "what did you name that mutt?"

He huffs at her, "don't call him that," and distracts himself for a second scratching behind the ears of the once-again-sleepy dog, "Lucky."

"That's..." she adds the steaming water into her mug, "surprisingly cliché"

"Tony said that," he purses his lips, nods when the witch silently offers an empty mug, "but it fits him."

She can feel him practically buzzing with the need to ask her, she can tell, and that makes her appreciate even more his abstinence. So she decides to be nice, for once, to make things easier.

"The job went bad..." and with that, she takes a seat- not without cringing- and waits for him to sit opposite of her before telling him the rest of the story.

Afterwards, he's silent for a while, alternating between sipping from his mug and softly petting the sleeping dog he's put on the counter- Tony would have a fit if he found out, probably.

"I don't think I like what you do," he says, with a finality that sends a knife right through her heart.

"What part?" Her voice sounds sickly sweet and she does nothing to stop it, "the blood magic, the illegality, the cohorting with dark beings, the occasional murder-?"

And he's fast, she knows, but sometimes she forgets, and some other times she's suddenly reminded, like how now his fingers are abruptly under her jaw, tilting her head up, his thumb softly tapping against the skin next to her busted lip, and he sounds so, so sincere when he says "the part where you always get hurt."

It's too much.

She gets up, or tries to, because the sudden motion is too much for her and she stumbles and he's _right there_ then, in her space, hands hovering over her shoulders, but he's not touching her and hey, maybe he finally discovered just what's her breaking point and is respecting it, the part of her mind that longs for sanity offers.

She straightens herself up. Crosses her arms tight. Tries to hold together the seams threatening to burst. And he's close, _so_ close...

She allows herself a moment of vulnerability, letting her head fall forward, forehead against his chest. He tenses briefly, but doesn't put his arms around her. Neither she wants him to.

"I hate you," she mutters between tears, "sometimes, I _really_ do _hate_ you."

"Why?" He shouldn't sound so calm, he really shouldn't.

"Because," _you get under my skin,_ "you make me like this," her voice is dripping poison and she's waiting for him to push her away, to run like hell because maybe it's not just her voice, maybe she _is_ poison, but... he doesn't.

Instead, he allows her to simply take a step back, dry her tears with the back of her hand, and look at him cautiously.

His eyes are unending pools of quiet blue, sad, maybe, but not angry, not hurt.

"Do you want to go watch something?"

"I-what?" There's a moment of ire, of violence, because she _just told him she hates him_ , she wants to push him, to claw inside his chest and grab his heart in her hands and _squeeze_ to see if that makes him angry, but it passes, and leaves behind something dried and shallow.

Moments later, Ash finds herself on one end of the couch, Pietro on the other, Lucky sleeping soundly between them. They're far apart and she's hugging her knees, not really watching the movie he's put.

She considers how irrational this whole situation is.

She also considers how from the moment she pushed herself to the limits to save his life, she's been constantly irrational with him.

She's all delicate softness against sharp edges, Pietro thinks while she starts to drift, and maybe the sharp edges are starting to dig into her, at least. And she doesn't have to try and fix it all on her own, but she's not realising that.

This whole thing goes far behind getting hurt on a job, he realises, this whole thing has been probably brewing for some time, and just when had he first noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes? The trembling of her hands while she drank her morning coffee?

He should have confronted her at some point; he should have bribed Wanda into telling whatever she knew about the storm brewing behind the witch's eyes.

And yet... and yet, in between all the mess, the blood, the pain, the anger... still, he can't help but think that he _had_ been right after all.

She _does_ look much better in blue.

* * *

The next time she opens her eyes it's day time, and she's again all tangled up with Wanda's limbs, no recollection of having walked back there, but she doesn't really care. It's warm and the hoodie is soft against her skin; she's drained both emotionally and mentally.

And it's still not right, _she's_ still not right... but maybe, eventually, she can figure this whole mess she's turned into, and she can be okay.

(Or, at least, the real catastrophe doesn't happen until a few days later, anyways.)

* * *

 **Remember when those first chapters made this story seem as something cute and lighthearted and Ash was occasionally having fun?**

 **Ha. Ha ha ha ha.**

 **(I'm so sorry you guys, the angst is still not over and I know this is shorter than usual, I just. I'm sorry.)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Warning: there's a bit of a discussion about suicide on the first scene of the chapter, so if there's anyone dealing with that you might wanna skip it. My characters doesn't necessarily show my opinions, and suicide is never 'the logical course of action'.**

 **P.S. Both a severe vocational crisis and tendonitis have hindered this chapter.**

* * *

CHAPTER XIII

Once you reach rock bottom, you can only go up.

(In which the author doesn't think this chapter is as good as it could've been.)

* * *

Dark and acrid it slithers down her throat and inside her veins, tiny snakes of something foul, thorns that snag on her soul and pull until the stitches snap and there's nothing left. The feeling of wrongness never leaves her, and she considers how, some time ago, she felt at ease in this distorted world.

"What were you expecting?" her odd reflection says, black eyes dull against the shadows.

" _Me?"_ the witch asks, "us."

"Yes, of course, get side-tracked on technicalities," a black butterfly flies close, and Ash who isn't Ash lets it sit delicately on a finger, "you- excuse me, _we_ always do that. Hold onto technicalities and loopholes while ignoring the whole picture of it," with cat-like reflexes, the butterfly gets ripped in half by the wings and eaten by a mouth too full of teeth.

"That," ash sneers at her counterpart, " _has_ to be unhealthy."

She only gets a terrible smile in return, and the witch sighs, looking at the terrible landscape.

She used to feel at ease in here.

"What's wrong?" She asks, almost distractedly, "the Nightmare feels… strange."

"It's not the Nightmare, you idiot. _We idiot?_ Anyways, it's not the Nightmare. It's us. _You,_ actually."

"Me?"

"You're at war with yourself. Tearing yourself apart," she shrugs, "you're not going to say you feel good when awake, are you?"

"I- _no_."

There's a finality there that resonates through the air like an echo.

"We're breaking, crumbling like stone. Sure we knew this was going to happen, eventually; what we do can't exactly be healthy. And we're under a lot of stress now."

"How do we fix it?"

Not-Ash sighs, her shoulders sagging, "I don't know if it something that can be fixed. Peaceful resolutions are too odd to hope for one, the sensible thing would be to ask for a bullet through our head, least we snap and turn into something out of control."

The witch snickers, a corner of her lips turns upward, "honestly," she mumbles, "years of slitting our wrists open and this is the first time we're actually having something resembling suicidal thoughts."

"Suicidal? No, it's the logical course of action," she takes the other one's hands in hers, "we're a fucking rabid dog, too stubborn to die, too dangerous to be left alone. And we. Are. Breaking. We can't possibly fix ourselves without fixing at least twenty years of issues. I see no viable way to do that."

* * *

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…_

How long has she been here again?

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…_

Long enough for daylight to come whispering through the windows, long enough for noise to start filtering through the crack on the door.

Socked feet padding down the hallway.

Someone stifling a yawn.

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…_

Long enough so that the inhabitants of the Tower slowly trickle inside the kitchen, one by one, with different greetings- to which she replies with polite nods, but no words.

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…_

The deck in her hands is worn, the once-colourful art nouveau motifs slightly faded with time. It had been a whim, once, seeing the deck on display, and buying it without much of a second thought.

Years pass, yet the weight of the deck, the shape of the cards in her hands, is still reassuring.

 _Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle-_

"Here."

At once, the witch startles herself out of her trance-like state; colours and sounds and plainly _people_ she'd been ignoring collide against her ears and had she forgotten how to breather for a minute there?

Ash looks at the offered mug in front of her, then at Clint, and with a nod, she accepts it in her hands, leaving the cards she's been toying with on the countertop.

It's a small comfort, the steaming mug of bitterness, but she latches onto the warmth as if it was the only thing that keeps her alive. Sometimes, she thinks it might be.

The archer sits opposite of her, drinking his own coffee while reading the newspaper. He doesn't say anything to her.

No one has said anything to her in these past couple of days, she notices, and can't help but wonder why. She knows they can perfectly see the exact shade of the circles under her eyes, the state of her unkempt hair, how her hands tremble constantly…

And that's just on the outside.

Inside, something's snagged into her brain; sharp claws squeeze her heart every other beat, dark shapes move at the edge of her vision at all times.

She's stopped looking in mirrors in fear of what she might find.

Maybe it's because they don't really know how to deal with her state of mind, maybe they think it's one of her _witchthings_ , to arrive bloody and barely holding herself together. Maybe they're all pretending to save whatever pride she's got left.

Ha.

 _As if._

Whichever reasons may be, she's grateful nevertheless. She studies the room between sips, notices the women have already left, judging by the lipstick stains on the mugs by the sink- and did they say anything to her?

Probably.

She has no idea.

One of her hands strays to the top of the deck, taps it, rhythmically, to some song she's long forgotten- or maybe she quite never knew.

She briefly crosses eyes with Tony, when he looks at her hand quizzically. She stops the tapping.

"You preparing for poker night?" He asks her while pouring orange juice in a glass.

"Tarot," the witch answers him, flipping the top card to show him.

Clint lowers his newspaper, "you know how to tell the fortune?"

Ash shrugs, but says nothing else. She leaves her mug aside, takes the deck in her hands again, and resumes shuffling.

The archer and the millionaire look at each other before Tony says, "Can you tell my fortune?"

She shrugs again.

"Oh come on!" He huffs, "I'll even wait until you finish with yours!"

"Doesn't work on me."

"Why not?" Clint inquires, "Your magic messes with the cards or something?"

Ash looks at him with an arched eyebrow, "sure," the corner of her lips turn upwards, "good enough, I guess."

"Seriously?" Clint asks.

She sighs, shuffles one last time and places the first three cards of the deck face-down on the counter.

"It's going to be Death, the Devil, and the Hermit, not in that particular order," she gestures towards the archer, then the cards, "be my guest."

Clint leaves the newspaper aside and leans forward, flipping over the first card.

The Devil.

He then flips the second, and third, and they both follow the witch's predictions.

"Okay," Tony says, "you could've cheated. Let _me_ shuffle."

Ash not-quite-smiles, and passes him the deck. The millionaire shuffles for a while, then puts the deck on the counter, "cut," he instructs Clint. The archer does so, and then passes the deck to the witch again.

Ash takes the first card, places it facing upwards on the counter. The Hermit. Next one; Death. Third one, the Devil.

"See?" She tries not to sound _too_ smug, "it's always the same three."

"Okay," Clint admits, shuffling the deck once again, "but why? This time take the bottom three."

She does, puts Death first on the counter, "Malcolm," she says, then places the Devil next to it, "Aidan," and then the Hermit, "me."

"Okay," Tony mutters, "creepy as hell, but okay."

"Wait," Clint says, "let's try again, now pick three cards from the middle."

Ash sighs, but complies anyways.

* * *

In between strange shuffling tricks and Tony trying to cheat- and failing, Pietro and Steve finally enter the kitchen, talking amiably between them.

"Okay, _this time_ it's going to be it, I can tell," the millionaire rubs his hands together and waits for the witch to turn over the cards… and then he makes an irritated sound, "but _how"_ he takes a card from his sleeve, and blinks.

The Wheel of Fortune.

"Okay," he says, "I _swear_ this was the Devil a minute ago."

Ash rolls her eyes, between amused and annoyed; Clint snorts in his coffee.

"Sure, Mr. Stark."

"No, I seriously _swear_ I took the Devil out."

"What are you doing?" Steve approaches the table, takes a look at the cards, "are those tarot cards?"

"Here," Tony hands him the deck, " _you_ shuffle, Cap, maybe you can beat whatever arcane powers are that always make the same three cards show up for our resident witch."

Steve looks at the deck in his hand, "is this dangerous, in any sort of way?" He carefully asks.

"Just to Mr. Stark's pride," Ash hums.

" _Hey_ , I mean that's _true_ , but I'm still offended."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound sorry."

"I'm not."

Clint puts a hand on Tony's shoulder, "let it go, man," he mutters, "let it go."

The witch rolls her eyes again, and feels more than hears Pietro sliding into the seat next to hers, and he's close, a bit _too close_ , in a way that makes her skin itch, but she says nothing of it.

"What three cards?" His voice is raspy, laced in sleep.

"Death, the Devil, and the Hermit," her answer is clinical, a formality, "for Malcolm, Aidan and me, respectively."

He mutters something along the lines of 'not surprising, that devil', but she ignores him in favour of taking the deck from Steve.

She picks three cards at random, places them on the counter. Turns them over, no surprises.

"That's… interesting," the soldier comments.

"Let me try once again, just one more", Clint purses his lips and starts shuffling.

After a few more minutes go by, with no changes, Tony steals a glance at his watch and sighs, "okay, no more fun time for me, I need to go to a meeting… like five minutes ago."

"Yeah, we should go too," Steve stands up, followed by Clint, "I've thought of a new obstacle course for Pietro," the archer says.

"Does it involve you shooting arrows at him?" Steve asks back.

"Maybe."

As they start to gather they things and leave, Ash stands up and takes her empty mug to the sink; Pietro notices, looks at the deck, and fast as he is, he shuffles before the witch can turn her back. Then he stands up, throws a goodbye- answered by an ambiguous sort-of grunt- and follows the others out of the Tower.

Ash sighs, alone again, toys with a strand of hair before taking the deck in her hands, distractedly placing three cards on the countertop. She flips the first one, the Devil.

There is a small comfort on the sensation of immutability, she muses, how despite the world might be headed on a path to certain chaos- sometimes-, there are things that truly stay the same.

She flips the second one, Death.

It's like a cycle, a never-ending cycle that can't help but repeat itself, time and time again. She likes routines, she'll grab onto whatever sense of stability- no matter how minuscule it might be- that she can get her hands on.

And that's fine, she needs them, the certain constants in life that-

She stops after flipping the third card.

Lets her hand hover over it, uncertain. Looks at the deck in her hand, back at the three cards on the table. Blinks, puzzled.

 _The Lovers._

Ash takes the cards in her hands, shuffles the deck again, brow furrowed, and takes out three cards again; the Hermit, the Devil, Death.

A fluke; they happen sometimes.

The world is right again.

* * *

Teeth snap at her, and there is it, always at the edges of her vision, something dark with many eyes that glow, always snapping its jaws at her.

"When will you realise," a voice says, "that at some point you'll run out of road to run."

She wakes up, slumped over her desk, there's something pulling at her sleeve.

Ash looks down towards the shadowy tendril; "hey," she says, "did you wake me up?"

A hiss.

"Thank you."

* * *

"I hadn't realised," the witch shuffles uncomfortably, "that my hair was a public matter."

"Don't be mean," Wanda pats her arm warmly, "they're trying to help."

"I'm not blaming _them_ , you were the one who brought out that colour chart, Wanda."

Tony lifts said chart before his eyes, then looks at the witch.

"What about a really dark red?"

"Like this _Golden Berry_?" Clint points a square of the chart.

"I was thinking more along the lines of _Velvet_."

Ash fingers the short strand of hair behind her ear almost protectively, "red isn't really my colour," she mutters, "but they're not going to listen, are they?"

"Hush dear," Tony chastises her, "we have only your best interest at heart."

"Yes," Clint adds, "if we leave it to you, it'd be any shade form light to dark grey, and you could do with a pop of colour."

" _A pop of colour_ , nice one."

"Thanks, I learnt that from my wife."

"Oh, how is she by the way? And the kids?"

"They're alright, can't wait for my time off next week to see them."

"Yeah I bet- wait. Maybe then again red isn't such a good idea, I mean, have we ever seen her use anything red at all? It's mostly greys, whites and the occasional blue, I wouldn't want to steal Captain's scheme by adding red."

"Good point. But do we _have_ to settle for a regular colour? Why not something like this _Brombeere_ purple?"

Ash sighs, takes half a step behind Wanda, "I don't want my hair a German blackberry colour."

Pietro chuckles form her other side, "more interesting than a regular blackberry, at least, no?" he says.

She shots him a dirty look.

"Then again, we could go in a complete different direction," Tony begins to gesture towards Ash, "just hear me out, what about a completely offensive, eye-damaging, neon-"

"No neons."

All eyes turn to Pietro with different degrees of interest and curiosity. He just shrugs indifferently, _shoo'_ s away the image of the redhead off his mind.

"Okay, wow, someone's got strong opinions regarding hair fashion," Tony mutters, "fine, fine, no neons."

* * *

There's something snarling, always, snapping its jaws at her, and not-her looks off, eyes wide, staring past Ash's shoulder.

"We need to wake up."

Ash turns around, faces the faceless thing- there's nothing, no eyes no mouth, just a void that seems endless, that seems ready to swallow her up.

"We need to wake up," she echoes, but she can't, and then there's thorny vines that coil around her legs, her arms, scratching and pulling and many directions and she _screams_ -

(There's a voice, off, somewhere, calling her name, but she can't place it', can't be certain if it's true or a mirage)-

The vines twist around her neck, cutting her oxygen, and that's when there's a jarring noise, like broken glass, that covers everything else…

And she wakes up.

Her hands go instantly to her neck, come back blood-stained and she curses. This is the first time she's gotten this hurt in a Nightmare, at least since that scare years ago when she decided to get the rowan tree symbol inked on her wrist.

There's a whimper across the room, and she lifts her head, eyes very, _very_ wide at the sight of Wanda, sprawled on the floor, hands holding her head tight. Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks tear-stained.

 _No._

Ash barely moves forward but stops dead when Wanda flinches back and-

 _No._

She puts the pieces together.

But hey, that little voice that sounds like Aidan provides, at least now you found out your breaking point.

She breaks.

* * *

There's nothing else for her to vomit, but she's still retching inside a paper basket, crawled under her desk. She's cleaning a string of saliva from her chin with the back of her hand when a knock on the glass door calls for her attention.

Tony looks at her, paper bag in one hand, tight smile on his lips. She blinks. He gestures towards the threshold and it's only then that clicks in her mind; she says a word, there's static in the air, and he extends a hand, testing for an invisible wall in front of him.

But there's nothing, so he walks in dives straight under the desk and sits next to the witch.

"I brought cheeseburgers."

"I can't eat," and _God_ , when did she start to sound so utterly broken?

"I also brought coffee. The darkest I could find; you can actually bite on the coffee grounds"

She bites on her lip and looks at the offered paper cup. Shyly, she extends a hand and accepts the beverage, taking it to her lips without a sound.

"So," Tony starks conversationally, "nice place you've got here," he gestures around, "very cosy under this desk. I can see the appeal."

She can see the effort he's putting into downplaying the whole situation, he's trying to defuse, lighten… But she can also see the way his jaw is tightened, how he looks a little pale.

"Maybe with a nice plant in the corner-"

"Stop. _Please_."

"I- okay, you're right. It's been three days, Ash."

"Is she still screaming bloody murder every time she closes her eyes?"

"I-" He licks his lips. His words falter.

"Then three days isn't nearly enough."

He looks at her, at the way her hooded eyes can't focus on anything for more than a few seconds, the way her skin looks waxy, shining with perspiration. There's dried blood on her neck, her arms and legs, in a pattern that looks like a vine-grip.

He's seen her beaten and bloody and tired, but it's the first time he's seen her broken.

"What are you doing here?" He asks in a whisper, "atoning?"

" _atoning_ ", she repeats in a voice that mocks a mockery, curls her lips into something that pretends is a smile, "no, I've got my whole life for that. I'm trying to _fix it_."

"Trying to fix _what_?" His voice sounds short of desperate, "I'm grasping at straws here, you've been MIA for the past few days, the only way I could find you was because that thing under your bed came looking for me in my lab- and by the way, for a thing that only communicates through hissing, it's quite good at getting the message across-; Wanda can't seem to sleep without howling like a mad banshee and Pietro…" he trails off, not really knowing how to finish that sentence.

Ash takes another sip of her coffee; it tastes bland to her.

"I told her not to, a while ago…" She mutters, letting her head fall back against the wall, "not to look inside my head. It's not a pretty place to be," a single tear falls from one of her eyes, and then another one, and another one, without her making any motion to stop them; "I'm used to whatever horrors you can find inside, to all of the things lurking in the dark. Someone who's never deal with it though?" She shakes her head slightly, "and it was a particularly bad Nightmare too…" her hand trails to her neck, and she visibly swallows.

"You mean, that," he gestures towards the blood at her neck, "was some sort of Freddy Krueger kind of deal?"

Ash blinks, the corner of her lips attempts and fail to curve upwards, "yes and no"; she's too tired to explain any further.

"And… whatever came after you, that can come after Wanda too?"

"No. She's pretty much invisible to most of those kind of creatures, compared to her, I'm a beacon. But I don't think she's going to be able to get them out of her head any soon."

"So how do we fix it?"

She turns her head towards him, offers the most desperate of looks, "I don't know."

No, he's never seen her so utterly and plain _broken_ before.

"You know…" he licks his lips, "it was an accident…"

She snorts, closes her eyes, "there has to be a risk factor for there to be an accident. I am a risk factor. I should have known; I'm so tainted it's only natural that it corrodes others."

"You didn't mean it-"

"Does a storm mean to upturn boats and cause deaths? And yet it still does."

"Hey, listen. We need to stop this dark spiral you're into; trust me when I say I know a bit about grief, and not-perfect-mental health, and a lot about regrets. Like, a whole fuckton of regrets. The latest was to release an evil robot that tried to take over the world, in case you remember."

She opens an eye, slowly, peers at him through it.

"What do you suggest, then?"

"First, we need to find a way to fix whatever's wrong in Wanda's head, okay?"

Ash huffs.

"I said I don't know how- and since when do _you_ know anything about magic?"

"People say I'm smart, walk me through it," he shrugs, "besides, a fresh set of eyes might help you see what you missed."

"Well," she worries her lip, "I suppose there's no possible way it can make things worse-" She stops, her eyes widen suddenly.

"What is it?" Tony asks, "Had an epiphany already?"

She lunges forward into the paper basket, retches into it whatever little coffee she had been managing to keep down for the moment, the cup in her hand clattering to the floor, spilling its contents.

"Woah, okay, easy there," Tony keeps her hair out of her face, rubs her back in slow circles, "I've got you, kid."

* * *

Tony stares at the page in front of him, the crude drawings next to the myriad of hurried notes- some followed up with question marks, some completely crossed out.

"Dreamcatchers?" Tony questions.

"I admit I'm a bit out of my territory here," she says, "but yes, dreamcatchers, essentially. Except I can't make them work properly."

"And that's because…"

"No idea. I'm started to use the traditional materials, but it's not strong enough…"

Tony takes one of the- dozens of- dreamcatchers on the desk, taps his finger against the wooden circle, "and something _stronger_ would be, what, the feathers of a phoenix, beads made of wood from the oldest tree…?"

"You get the general jest of it, yes."

"Can't you ask Malcolm or something?"

She snorts.

"Malcolm's unreachable at the moment- it happens. And… in case you haven't realised, this is what you would call 'white magic', and what I do, well, falls on the opposite side of the spectrum. Most of the people who I know and practice this sort of thing…"

"Aren't very nice to you?"

"Want me dead."

"Oh."

* * *

"Okay quick question here."

Ash hums, tying to weave a silver string into the wooden circle.

"It's been six days. How come nobody else has come knocking here?"

"They don't know where I am," she answers distractedly.

Tony takes seven stone beads in his hand, seven, Ash had said, is a magical number.

"What do you mean?"

"Tub- as in Thing Under Bed- has been cloaking me."

"You named it?"

"Him."

" _Him_?"

"I asked which pronouns he preferred, so, him. And he's made of shadow, remember? Apparently, he can use it to cloak me if I want to."

"Oh, that's definitely-"

" _Fuck._ "

Tony stops at her curse, cranes his head in her direction. _'You okay?'_ , he wants to say, but the words die in his throat; her head is bent low, hands twisted in her dirty hair. She's been like this, for the past days, fluctuating between bouts of frantic activity and thick layers of guilt and self-loathing.

He ran out of encouraging words hours ago.

She looks at the end of her rope, truly, sickly and fever-flushed, but he knows she's not going to rest until she finds a way to fix it.

"I'm going to leave," she presses her palms against her eyes, where tears are gathering, "once we find a way, I'll leave. I'm toxic, so I should leave for good."

"Ash-"

"I just, I hurt _her_ ," the sheer note of _desperate_ in her voice sort of breaks him, and he sighs. He can't say anything else when she's like this, so he just puts a hand on her shoulder and waits until she can talk again.

"Hey," he says after a while, "what about a change of scenery? You've been cooped up in here for days now…"

Fast like a snake she snaps her head up, looks at him dead in the eye, " _what_ ," it doesn't sound like a question.

"I know you don't want to stop," Tony sighs, "but at this rate you're going to get yourself killed, witch or no. You're barely eating, and most of what you eat you throw up, you haven't slept in-"

"No, no, go back. What did you say before?"

Tony blinks.

"A change of scenery…?"

Ash slaps a hand against her forehead, then looks at bit dazed after doing so.

"I'm an idiot," she mutters, "the biggest idiot. He's always muttering about the lines and I never listen…"

" _He?"_ Tony questions, "who?"

"A guy named John, he wears a trench coat," Ash waves a hand in dismissal, "not important. Get me a blueprint of the tower."

"Why?"

"Do _it!"_

* * *

Tony stops to catch his breath, hands on his knees.

"Why am I doing this, again?"

"Ley lines," Ash mutters, "just keep moving the furniture, I need that spot perfectly clear."

"And I suppose I'm the one rearranging my living room into proper order again later, right?"

She doesn't reply.

* * *

She sits on the floor in the cleared spot, starts bending the willow in her hands to form a circle. There's a slow certainty in her movements, like she needs every single thing her hands do to be precisely accurate.

Tony watches next to her, holding the ball of silver string in his hands. The light of the full moon through the window only helps to accentuate the dark under her eyes and dried blood.

After a while, a bubble of laughter escapes through her lips.

"What is it?"

"It's just," the witch shrugs a shoulder, "if my mother could see me now, suffering so much to do something _good_. She'd probably be squirming in her grave," then, she squints her eyes, and whispers, "I hope she is."

"Estranged relationship with a parent? Kid, we've got more in common than I thought."

"I don't know," she muses, eyes never leaving the circle, "did your parent poison you?"

Tony blinks, "you're kidding."

"No," she twists her mouth into something akin a smile, "she poisoned me slowly, very gradually, through the years. String."

" _Why?"_ He passes her the ball.

"Not sure, maybe she wanted to see if she could made me immune to poison, probably- She _did_ , by the way. It wasn't the most pleasant years of my life."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit."

"Well, what kind of poison was it?"

She stops, for a minute, glances at him, and back at her work, "you know that white flower I keep by my window?" She doesn't wait for him to confirm, "That's a moonflower. Stay away from it."

* * *

Ash looks at the completed dreamcatcher in her hands; she sighs in relief.

"Are we sure it's going to work?"

She nods, not trusting her words. Her throat feels too tight.

"How?"

She snorts, takes a hand away from the dreamcatcher and shows it to Tony. Red raw lines twist on the places her skin has been in contact with the artefact, "only something so inherently _good_ could hurt me just by touching."

"You're not that bad."

"Can we not do this?"

"Just listen, okay?" The millionaire licks his lips, "honestly? I think you're an okay kid, who just did her best with a series of really shitty events thrown her way."

"I'm a blood witch."

"I said you're _okay_ , not good, give me a break. Just- you're not as much an asshole as you could've been, given everything."

"I," she flounders, "thanks?"

"Sure," he chuckles, "honestly, with all of the weird shit I've been exposed to, lately? Magic and demons and whatever? Yeah, an alien invasion is still my top fear."

"Uh," the witch leaves the dreamcatcher on the floor, rubs the red marks on her hands, "if it makes you feel at ease, in case that ever happened again, I _could_ summon an army of fire elementals, I mean, they _are_ at my disposal. I did a favour for someone once- it's a long story."

" _What."_

"Thing like, two meters of sentient lava and fire. An army of those."

"Why," he punctuates, "are you not trying to take over the world?"

"Why would I do that?" She looks genuinely puzzled, and he can't help but laugh.

"Okay, yeah, an army of whatever elementals sounds fine, I'll sleep soundly at night," he sobers up, then says, more seriously, "although, you were kinda right before. About that 'having to leave' thing- but not because you're toxic. Just- you're not in a good place, aren't you? Haven't been in a while."

She shuts her eyes, doesn't open them for a while.

"Take some time off, deal with whatever's going on with you, away from distractions and stress factors. Heal up, kid. You need it."

"I'm not that great at saying goodbye…" she mutters.

"Oh, you leave that up to me, no worries."

She nods, slowly, gestures towards the dreamcatcher, "make sure to hang that over Wanda's bed. And," she wets her lips, "thank you, I mean it, Tony."

* * *

By morning, there's no sign of the witch or the thing under her bed, but Tony finds a scribbled note in his lab with a phone number under the headline 'just for emergencies'.

* * *

 **Couple of things:**

 **I know so little about tarot cards, so I kinda chose the cards on whatever information I could find online. If I had better art skills, I would draw my characters as the cards I stated they represent. Alas, I can only cry.**

 **I said I was going to finish this chapter by today, and given it's 23.59 right now, I'm amazing.**

 **My eyes are really tired and I can't spot typos anymore, so** _ **please**_ **let me know. Thanks.**

 **As always, thank you for favourites and reviews.**


	14. Chapter 14

**QUESTION TIME GUYS I'm** _ **slowly**_ **becoming more active on my tumblr (mshoneytea) and I've posted there a couple doodles from this story; would you be interested into me uploading there terrible art, previews, rantings, missing scenes, Q &A, anything related to this story at all?**

 **(And maybe dumb selfies and pictures of my cat).**

* * *

Chapter XIV

 _Lay your weary head to rest_

 _(Don't you cry no more)_

* * *

The night she arrives at the hotel, she receives a text on her new phone- the other is forgotten, turned off and buried at the very bottom of her suitcase-; the text is short, just two words-

" _it worked"_

Ash feels like she's breathing for the first time in weeks- although, it first, it feels more like _hyper_ ventilating, like all of the stress and anxiety from past days are simply escaping together at once.

When it's over, when she's no longer laughing hysterically nor tears fall from her eyes, she prepares herself for the longest bubble bath she's had in her whole life.

(She still doesn't check her old phone, she keeps it hidden, away from calls or texts or temptation.)

* * *

Tub- the thing under the bed- proves to be quite useful, reaching high with a wispy tendril of smoke to hand her things out of her reach, folding himself away in dark corners when he's not needed, and once even resting on top of her feet while she reads before sleeping.

Animals rarely trust her, Ash thinks, but maybe, a bitter shadow-creature born from darkness and negative thoughts that does little more than hiss and gurgle can be a suitable companion.

Tub softly emits an oddly purring sound, and Ash curses the similarities between this and the Witch-Cat Stereotype.

* * *

The days slowly merge together, turn to weeks in which she completely loses herself in sunshine and saltwater, and a part of her wonders if maybe, she's chosen this place for the beaches, or for the possibility of Tony Stark appearing to haul her ass back to New York.

Whenever that thought crosses her mind, she swallows back another _caipirinha_ , adjusts her sunglasses and forces herself not to think about New York, or the people there.

At night, the Nightmares are still out to get her, but at least it's only her now, she doesn't have to worry about anyone else.

She thinks that lifts months of stress from her shoulders.

* * *

Malcolm visits before the second week ends, and she's not quite surprised that he knows how to find her despite her never telling.

It's always been like this, him able to see right through her, to follow on her every step if he wants.

Some days, that knowledge is hell, some other days, it's the only thing that grounds her.

He's not warm or fatherly, he's never been, but he's _efficient_ , he does things that need to be done, so when he shows up and leaves a small glass bottle filled with dark liquid on the small coffee table her room has, with perfectly measured sentences including the words "dreamless" and "Marie Laveau" and "some nasty side effects", she almost hugs him, calls him 'dad'.

She doesn't.

Instead, Ash smiles, tight-lipped, politely thanks him and sees him back to the door. Before she can close it, however, he turns around, takes a small business card out of his pocket and pushes it into her hands.

"She's good," he says, "professional, effective."

Ash looks up, intent on thanking him, and finds herself swallowed by his amber eyes, those eyes that always scrutinise everything, that have always held a detached, infinite wisdom, making her believe, as both a child and adult, that he truly does possess all of the answers of the universe.

Now, however, there's also a hint of sadness, as small as it is, that she doesn't know what to make of.

"You were always my best student," he says, a simple fact she knows true, and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder.

And still, she resents the past tense, resents the unasked question- _'what happened?'_ \- In between the lines of his velvet-voice.

Her eyes fill with tears that she ignores.

"Well," her lips curve upwards, "you _are_ comparing me to Aidan, so,"

He doesn't smile, only frowns less, then finishes his exit.

Only when the door is closed, her tears finally fall, and it's later, while mixing a few drops of the dark potion into a glass of water, that she realises _that_ interaction was the closes thing to affection she's seen on Malcolm in the decade she's known him.

(She feels like crying again, except the potion is already making effect, and she barely makes it into bed before it knocks her out.)

* * *

Every day, she sleeps more hours than she should, and immediately after she wakes up- with a mouth that feels full of cotton- she runs to the bathroom to vomit. Her head is groggy, like some sort of mist has descended over her, but she's completely cut from the Nightmares, so she keeps the drops in her drink before going to sleep.

* * *

Slowly, her feet touch the ground again. She buys two paintings and five dresses. She performs a simple spell for a woman who pays her with an old film camera. She goes out one afternoon, uses all of the film on things she finds pretty: flowers and street art and colourful birds; she finds beauty on the curve of a young girl's smile, finds beauty on the way the shadows fall around the intertwined hands of two men walking on the beach.

She develops the pictures, then burns them all out of spite towards something.

The next days she buys more film.

The business cards remains on the coffee table, its edges starting to curve with the amount of times she's turned it over in her hands. She doesn't dare to call, leaves it again there, in plain sight.

Her old phone is still off.

* * *

She goes on a couple of dates, with a guy fresh into university, with a woman ten years older than her, with different people from different backgrounds. They distract her, for a bit, a few hours, but none of them stick enough on her skin for her to call back.

The one who distracts her longer, for a whole night, is a man, tall and tanned and honest, who reminds her some of Wanda, and some not. He stills for a breath when she takes off his shirt, finds a binder, but she kisses him and he relaxes again.

The next day they eat breakfast in silence, he shoots her a smile full of camaraderie, says 'I hope you find what you're looking for', and leaves her hotel room with light steps.

His is the only number she keeps, puts the scrap of paper in a box that hides a star-shaped post-it and other silly knickknacks.

She doesn't call him, but thinks that maybe, in a future, it'd be nice to have him around some.

She turns over the business card in her hands again; her fingers go for the phone in her pocket before she stops, sighs, and decides to head down to the beach with her camera.

She doesn't go on other dates for the rest of her vacation.

* * *

The potion runs out one day. The next, she finds another bottle, full.

It makes her think of things she hasn't given much thought in the past years, and she spends the afternoon playing with her tarot cards, burning the images in her eyes.

She's always needed some semblance of order in her mind; she makes lists, puts labels, rationalises until she can no more, and submerges her life in routines within routines.

She'd go insane if she didn't.

She flips over the cards, thinks of Aidan and Malcolm.

Most of her life, she's been able to put people in boxes such as "client" and "colleague" and "enemy". With Aidan and Malcolm, she discovered early that they both fit several boxes, and none at all.

It's not "brother" or "enemy" or "ally". But it's all of them too.

It's "father" and "teacher" and "boss". But it's not any of them either.

Ash stares at the Devil, thinks of Aidan and his impulsiveness, his resourcefulness, the way his actions rarely follow a pattern. She wouldn't trust him with her life, but she also would, absolutely, because she knows him as well as her own self, maybe even knows him better.

She hates him at worst, tolerates him at best, but honestly? Needs him, always has.

They clash in a violent way that balances everything out.

And Malcolm…

Distant and quiet in a way that's deafening, always pushing them for more, for better, up to the limit without letting them fall.

Some days she cannot tell if he stills sees them as investments, or if he's generated a genuinely attachment towards them.

He's always been the greatest mystery.

Once, when she was fourteen, Aidan joked that by the time they were long dead, Malcolm would probably remain a constant in the living world. She'd scoffed at the notion back then, now? She's not so sure.

She could use so many words to describe him, and yet she know so little of him. But there's one thing she's always been sure with absolute certainty, for all of the things he may or may not be, to her?

He's _Safe._

Ash remembers once, when she'd been young and stupid, when she'd listened to the suggestions of her not-brother and smoked some plant a shaman had given the redhead, how in her muddy-mind state she could clearly see thick strings tied around her ankles, connecting her to both men in the house.

Some things are meant to be constants, tied together in the mess of chaos and wild chance. For all of their differences, when they're together they're short of unstoppable, and she knows if they wanted to, they could easily make the world burn to ashes.

* * *

"What do you think?" She asks Tub while holding up a colour chart. The creature stops rinsing her hair, looks at the chart, scoffs, and resumes his work.

"Come on, your insight is important," a hiss, he grabs the bottle of conditioner, squeezes some on her hair. Ash huffs, splashes around the bubbles trying to look over her shoulder at Tub, but stops when he hisses at her.

"Just pick one," she pleads, another hiss, and then he's lightly tapping against Royal Blue, and she blinks slowly.

"Why?"

He doesn't make any sound, instead, focuses on finishing with her hair.

* * *

The card is twirling in her hands again, her cell phone on the coffee table in front of her.

She reaches for it, bites her lip and retreats her hand.

She reaches for it again, and that's when it rings with a number she recognises everywhere. She stifles a sigh, answers it.

"What's wrong?"

" _Where are you?"_

"Rio," she answers back easily, "what's wrong, Aidan?"

" _Nothing, I-wait. You're in_ Rio? _Where in Rio?"_

"Copacabana. Is something wrong or not?"

" _Uh, yes, technically, not for us but… What's your hotel?"_

She huffs, "Copacabana Palace".

" _Huh. We're at the same hotel."_

"What," she bites the word.

" _Crazy coincidence, I didn't expect-"_

"Aidan _why_ are you calling me?"

" _Right, well. Tell me your room number, it's best if I show you."_

* * *

He's gotten a sunburn, she notices, smiles at the way the red skin almost matches his hair; he shoots her a dirty look, already knowing what she's thinking.

Aidan moves past her on the door, notices Tub under the coffee table, distractedly lifts a hand in greeting towards the creature. He gets a hiss in return.

"Your friends," he mutters while turning on her huge tv, "are making quite a ruckus."

"What?"

He simply motions her towards the couch, flipping through channels until he settles on some smartly dressed woman presenting the news in Portuguese. Ash sits with her legs under her- Aidan simply flops down on the cushions.

The news anchor is talking about a series of explosions in Manhattan and general chaos after the uncovering of a terrorist operation, and Ash quickly focuses her attention to the screen, brow furrowed.

" _De volta à cena,"_ the anchor says, and the left half of the screen is taken by footage of smoke and buildings that reads _ao vivo_ in intermittent red letters.

There's not much that can be made out in the smoke except the occasional tell-tale noises of a fight, and then Steve appears on screen, wearing his full Captain America suit, helping herd civilians out of the area.

"Apparently, they were on some mission to take down a potential terrorist cell right under their noses, but I think shit went badly," Aidan rolls his eyes, "now nobody's saying anything about biohazard threats, but _my_ money's on biohazard threats."

"Your metaphorical money, I hope?"

"No, it's an actual bet I've got going on. Wanna enter the pool?"

"No."

At some point she vaguely notices Aidan get up and start rummaging around the suite, only to return to the couch five minutes later with a bag of popcorn. She distractedly takes a handful, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Ouch," Aidan comments at some point upon noticing Clint receive a punch straight to his jaw, and Ash hums in assent, before she chokes- she blames it on a kernel and definitely _not_ on the person on the screen- and Aidan none too gently slaps her back once, making her almost tumble out of the couch.

He smiles at her with predatory innocence, shrugs, and gestures back to the screen, now vacant of choke-inducing individuals.

She hadn't forgotten about him, of course she hadn't, that'd be ridiculous.

And yet for the whole instant he appeared on screen, supported himself on his knees, caught his breath, and ran out of frame again, she feels like she's suddenly remembering him, the infinite blue, the smiles and easy jokes and-

"You _do_ know they're terribly loud, your superhero buddies."

"What?" Her voice sounds hoarse.

"I just mean," Aidan comments around a mouthful of popcorn, "if _we_ had to dismantle some underground operation, it definitely wouldn't make it to international news."

She chews on that thought, concedes, "more people would die though, probably."

"True," he throws a kernel at her, "but no explosions. We should teach them a thing or two on group stealth."

"I _think_ stealth is already lost when your leader wears a blue, red and white suit."

"And let's not talk about the man in a metal suit- what the _fuck_ is that? Does that guy has a cape? And _red_ skin?"

"You want to go with _red skin_?" Ash smiles lopsidedly.

He rolls his eyes, "blame it on my Irish blood," he grumbles, "but really, that guys _does_ have red skin. Who's that?"

"Not sure," she bites her lips, "I _think_ I've seen him around the facilities…"

"You think?"

"You're telling me after everything, you don't have the ability to ignore the strange around you?"

He makes a noise that could be either agreement or dissent, but keeps running the commentary on the scene, voicing what he would've done differently, and, Ash realises, this almost feels normal- _normal_ -normal, not _their_ sense of normalcy-if one ignores that they're discussing some almost-tragedy as one would a movie.

She winces every time one of the team takes a hit, feels her pulse run when she finally catches a hint of dark hair and red clothes, searches frantically for any dark circles under her eyes or waver on her stance, and exhales in reassurance when she finds none.

The back of her brain, the part that's keeping active and logical, is already coming up with different protection symbols and sigils, mixing them together in patterns she's never tried before, wondering their stance on ink on their skin.

After half an hour, the fight seems to finish, and while there's still smoke and debris making it hard to see what's going on at the scene, the anchor states that the situation is finally stable, authorities are focusing on relief effort, assessing the damage caused to the neighbourhood, finding a safe place for all the evacuates.

Ash sighs, Aidan looks at her.

"You look worried," a smile curls around the words, "don't have faith on your little hero friends?"

She takes a breath, open her mouth- and then thinks better on it.

"I'm not doing this," she states, "I'm on _vacation_ , I'm not doing this. If you need a way to relieve your anger, find it somewhere else."

The redhead lifts an eyebrow, looks like he wants to say something else, but keeps quiet instead.

Well.

That's a first, Ash thinks.

And then panics when she notices him look at the small business card on the coffee table, lunge forward and turn it over in his hands.

"Don't mess that up," She hisses.

" _Why_ do you have-"

"Malcolm gave it to me."

His eyebrows shot up, both at the same time, and then he squints at the card, turns his head, squints at her… and he laughs.

" _What_." She barks.

"Nothing," he leaves the card on the table again, "it's just, I don't know, reassuring to see that you don't have it _all_ together after all. Little Ash, always logical and proper and in control of her emotions…"

" _Aidan-_ " she warns.

"Calm down," he waves a hand in front of him, "I'm not insulting you. If anything, I dislike you a bit less. It gives you a little humanity, seeing you're as much a mess as the rest of us."

* * *

She dials the number and bites her lip, half-thinking on hanging up before someone answers, but before she can complete that thought, a polite, professional voice is heard from the other end of the line.

" _Hello?_ "

"Hello, Dr. Esther Martinez?" Ash asks.

" _Yes, can I help you with anything?"_

She likes her voice, the witch thinks. It sounds… _clean_.

"My name is Aisling Datura, "she starts, unsure of how she's supposed to do this, "I- Malcolm Delacroix recommended you."

A beat of silence on the other end.

Then: _"I see. I can make space in my agenda to start next week, if you'd like, miss Datura."_

* * *

Later, with a flight booked to New York due next week and an appointment for the hairdresser due next day, she can't help but look one last time at the worn card in her hands, anxiety rising from her stomach.

 _Dr. Esther Martinez_

 _Therapist_

* * *

 **Short chapter because I'm sort of planning on making a monster out of the next one? And this serves mostly as transition? Anyways thank you as always for your reviews, follows and favourites.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey guys remember to check my tumblr (mshoneytea) for art, previews, and dumb stuff on this story, just click on the little crown on the left, it'll take you to the tag. Also, let me know if you enjoy what I put there otherwise IDK what kind of things you wanna see?**

…

 **I am so sorry for the delay. I am a bad person. Unlike Bee. Bee is a good person and a good friend and she makes me write. This chapter is for her.**

* * *

 **Chapter XV**

 **On Cooking Lessons**

 **(Alternatively: In Which The Author Expects The Readers To Go 'Aww'.)**

* * *

"What?" Tony blinks.

" _Feijoada_?" Clint says again, "it's very good,"

The millionaire looks past him, at the mass of white hair bumbling about in front of the stove, occasionally stirring the contents of a big clay pot with a wooden spoon.

"Technically it's not done yet," the witch says over her shoulder, "I'm using Clint to test this recipe."

Tony blinks again. He stares at Ash- and just how she manages to come and go from the Tower without him knowing?- before his face breaks into a smile.

"Sure," he sits down next to the archer, "I could use some good food. So what's that, exactly?"

"Brazilian stew. Black beans, pork, beef, some other stuff. Served with rice," Clint replies, "so how was the meeting anyways?"

"Lenghty, terrible, we're urged to do something about our public image."

Ash smiles softly, humming a gaelic song she heard from Aidan under her breath, allowing the conversation to lull her into a complacent mood. This is nice, the cooking, the people. It's a semblance of normalcy, of things falling back slowly into their places.

She reaches for the salt, frowns when she half-expects it to be pushed into her hand by Tub, then remembers the creature is on his rightful place under her bed once again, away from people.

She adds a pinch of salt, stirs the _feijoada_ , thanks that neither of the two men made a big deal of her coming back. Ash bites her lip, she isn't sure how the rest are going to take it, but pushes that thought out of her head; she's got at least a couple hours before crossing paths with anyone else.

Once the food is done and everyone's served she stands, hands on her hips, waiting.

"Ohmygod," Tony mumbles around a mouthful, "this is _really_ good."

Clint nods enthusiastically, "so how did you get this recipe?"

"Eh," the witch shrugs, "traded it for breaking a curse on a man. Non-lethal, small stuff. Like, condemned to lose a single sock every time he washes his clothes, or every time he forgets his umbrella it starts raining. Very annoying."

Tony winces at her words.

"So," she continues her story, "I managed to get his ancient secret family recipe passed down for generation in exchange of my humble services."

"Wow," Clint smiles, "you _are_ ruthless."

She smiles wide, proud. Tony notices it's not forced, not weighed… he stops eating, drops a small amount of gentleness on his voice:

"Are you feeling better, then?"

Ash sighs, pushes some of the wavy hair away from her face.

"No," she half-shrugs, "but I'm on the road to be," then, quieter, almost shy, "I've… started therapy."

The archer looks up suddenly, exchanges a glance with the millionaire, "really?" They ask at the same time.

"Really."

"Is that working out for you?" Tony looks just a tad too eager on his question, Ash notices, but ignores it on the pretence of respecting his privacy.

"Yes… She's good. My therapist, she's very good."

"Is she aware of the, uh…" Clint gestures vaguely at her.

"Witch things? Yeah," half a smile, "apparently she's an old acquaintance of Malcolm," she glances at the clock on the wall, "and speaking of, I need to leave now if I'm going to arrive on time. I made plenty of food in case the others want some," with a hurried goodbye she rushes through the door, cloud of hair trailing behind her.

"So," Tony says after a while, "we have our witch back."

"Witch?" Clint gestures towards his plate, "we have our _cook_ back. Don't know about you, but I'm getting seconds."

* * *

The moment she comes back to the Tower, sets foot on the kitchen, she's almost tackled down to the floor. In between dark hair and a series of ' _sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry'_ she manages to awkwardly embrace Wanda back, letting the other girl hold her into what she can only classify as a gentle bear-hug.

"What," Ash spits dark hair from her mouth, "what are you sorry for?"

Wanda lets her go, holds her by the hands, and the witch tries to ignore the fact that her friend looks a bit like she wants to cry.

"For looking into your head. You said no, I didn't listen…"

"That's _not_ your fault," her voice is firm, steady, "you just wanted to help, I should have realised-"

"But I was stupid-"

"Well so was I-"

"Then we were both stupid!"

The shout makes Ash lose track of whatever she was going to say. She licks her lips, Wanda squeezes her hands, eyes still a bit too bright.

"I… Okay. We were both stupid."

Wanda smiles at that, hugs her close once more before letting go, patting her hair in proper order. The witch takes the moment to scan the room, her eyes finding blue suddenly, and for a minute she fears another crushing hug, but he doesn't get close, and she doesn't move either.

He shoots her half-a-smile, vague, uncertain, and maybe he's waiting for her to say something, or maybe he isn't, but she can't be sure because Wanda catches her attention again.

"Where were you? Tony said you needed a vacation, yes?"

"Sort of," she runs a hand throw her hair, Wanda follows the motion with her eyes, opens them wide before snapping her gaze to hers again. Ash notices, knows what she's looking at, and know it augurs a careful inspection later, probably with braiding included.

Before she knows what's going on, Wanda herds her out of the room, with promises of talking about pretty much everything. Ash darts one last look at her friend's twin, but finds him looking the other way.

* * *

In the end, it's half talking, half crying what they do. They put each other up to date, cry their repentance for being stupid, there's praises of a dreamcatcher, chastising over always having a phone off, some more tears.

Afterwards, it's eating icecream directly form the container while watching terrible movies.

"So," Wanda casually comments at one point, "you dyed it blue."

"It goes with my colours."

"It suits you very much."

And if Wanda's statement carries a much more meaningful intent than just colour schemes, she doesn't see the witch reacting by it at all.

* * *

Some things, some habits, are hard to break. Maybe it's simple muscle memory, maybe she just can't sleep after all those emotions condensed coming out; for whatever reason, she pads barefoot out of her room, soundless so as not to rouse Tub, and directs herself to the kitchen.

He's there, nursing some overly sweet beverage, but doesn't look up at her, so she doesn't acknowledge him either. Instead, she goes through motions of making tea- it's too late for coffee on a night when she's not working. She rises on the tips of her toes, finds she can't reach the cabinet, and hates herself a bit for half-expecting help that doesn't come. So, with blue eyes burning her back she climbs on the countertop, kneeling until she can sort through the different kind of leaves- and in all this time, someone made sure they were restocked, she realises-, picking a blend of white tea and lavender and hopping off to heat water.

She pretends he's not there, behind her, while she puts the kettle. She pretends he's not there, behind here, while the water heats. She pretends he's not there, behind her, while pouring her drink in a mug.

She turns and faces him, while sitting opposite of him.

It's blue against grey, for a second, and then he looks away.

There's a wall, the witch notes, and for the first time, it's not her the one who's put it up.

He looks inside his mug, brows furrowed, like his drink holds the answers his searching for.

Ash doesn't like it. She's used to him talking, to his silences even being loud, filled with words he's not saying. Not to just… silence. Empty.

In the end, he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, looks at her- it's _closed_ , is that how she looks at people?- and says:

"I was angry with you."

It's like a dam breaks.

"You…" He sighs again, "you hurt my sister. Hurt her bad. And I…" Ash jumps when he curses angrily in Sokovian, and it's funny, she muses, how despite her career choice, she can't find anything to say to him, "I know that it was not on purpose, but you still hurt her."

The witch nods once, looking down at her tea. She hasn't even sipped on it yet.

He pauses, waits for her.

Words, she begs, words.

"Hurting Wanda…" she starts, licking her lips, "that's the first time something weighed on my conscience in… ever."

"Good." There's no poison behind the word, just a matter-of-fact sternness she can get behind.

She agrees with the sentiment anyways.

"But," he goes on, "then you fix it, and I was less angry. But you leave, and don't say where, and Stark says nothing more than you are away, and when Wanda calls, when I call, your phone is _off¸ always off."_

"I know," the witch simply says.

"You're not saying you're sorry," there's irritation in his voice, she notes. He wants… what? What does he want?

"I'm not."

"Saying it? Or sorry?"

"Yes."

Pietro looks at her, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. It's the face of impatience, and it allows her to breathe; impatience, in him, at least she knows.

"Are you," she ventures, still not touching her drink, "are you still angry?"

"No, I'm…" his fingers tap on the wooden surface of the countertop, "confused," he settles on.

"Confused?"

"Vacation?"

"Oh," well… she supposes it's vague for an explanation after all.

He watches her stand, push her hair away from her face, start to pace from one place to another.

"I, uh, haven't been at my best… lately…."

He nods; he knows this.

"And I think that after what I did- what _happened_ \- she corrects herself, and thinks that Esther would be proud- I… had a breakdown. It wasn't pretty. And, Tony made me realise, I needed some time away, to… heal. To get better. So, vacation."

Okay. _That_ he didn't know. And maybe he shouldn't have been that harsh earlier, but he's not allowed the chance to apologise because she continues talking.

"And. And I started therapy. Because, uh, getting better."

That catches his attention, Ash can tell, from the way he looks at her with renewed interest. Maybe that's it, the sudden focus, what makes her feel _shy._

"And my therapist, she says that what's happening is," she inhales deeply, closes her eyes, "all my life I lived in a constant state of amorality, both as an inner state and in the people surrounding me, and then I come here, and you're all about _good_ and _bad_ and it's probably the first time I have to consider those notions, and it provokes a break on my personal stablished paradigms," she toys with the hem of the faded tshirt she's wearing, vaguely noticing that she might have stolen it from Clint at some point, "and she's helping me," he stands from his place, "with, um, with," he walks towards her, she swallows, "with…"

She trails off the moment he touches her, and the witch wants to run, for a minute, turn tails and escape, but instead she thinks better of it and allows it, lets him hold her face turn it into what little light there is.

"…with that," she finishes her earlier thought distractedly, "what are you _doing_?"

"Looking," he simply says, gently turning her face from side to side.

He's overstepping boundaries, he thinks, wonders if he should let her go, looks at the way her eyes are open, blinking slowly like she's stuck in that place, like some frightened deer.

Then again, she's not some helpless girl, and he _knows_ that if she wanted, she'd have no problem slapping his hands away, taking a step back to create some needed space.

He traces the non-existent dark circles under her eyes with a thumb- he can clearly hear her swallow at that-, compares the flush on her cheeks and nose to her earlier waxen pallor- okay, she's been under the sun lately, wherever she was- and decides that yeah, she _is_ better.

Once again he's struck by how simply _pretty_ she is.

His hands are warm, she thinks, so very warm, and it's a fact that she knows, that she's labelled and filed at the back of her head, but one thing's theory, and another's practice and it's just so _warm_.

Brazil, she thinks, wasn't this warm.

She wants to ask him what's he's looking at that much on her face, but her tongue feels heavy with cotton and even if it didn't, she's not sure that she _really_ wants to know anyways. His gaze falls away from her face, eyebrows slightly raised.

"That's new," he comments, light, airy.

Ash touches the spot right below where her collarbones meet, lightly tracing what's visible of the ink above the collar of the shirt she's using.

"Yeah," she tugs on the collar, letting him see the little circle-shaped snake, "balance and cycles and all that."

He stretches a hand, thinks better of it, lets it fall again, "I like it," he says.

She likes it, too.

"I think I should go back to sleep," she says after a while, "before I mess too much with my sleep cycle again."

When he nods, she turns to leave, but he holds onto her wrist, and then he's all up in her space again, eyes intent, searching for something he might have seen in her hair- _oh_.

 _That._

He twirls the lock of hair once with his fingers, then lets it go, lets her go, bids her goodnight and watches her pad softly out of the kitchen.

He dares not to ask, because he may be exaggerating a simple colour choice, and she's logical, clinical, he thinks that yeah, it _does_ go with most of her daily colour scheme, it probably has nothing to do with anything remotely emotional.

An aesthetic choice for the sake of pleasing the eye.

She _does_ like things of beauty.

Then again…

He can't stop the small smile that forms on his lips, because he thinks that hey, it's _not_ any awful neon shade, and sure, it's petty, it's not as if he can actually talk to the guy, but _still_.

It's blue.

* * *

Slowly, things start to fall back into place. There's a ton of paperwork for her to catch up with waiting at her desk, at which she throws herself wholeheartedly for the first few days. She starts a routine, sets schedules for herself, forces herself to sleep six or seven hours at least per night.

She goes to the headquarters one day, dressed formally, and withstands, in absolute silence, forty minutes of her employer screaming at her about leaving for indefinite periods of time without so much as a warning.

Afterwards, he's waiting for her to rebuke his words, to phrase some perfectly polite way of saying 'fuck you', to call that lawyer of hers and manage to snag even more money thrown in her paycheck-

She doesn't.

She simply nods, takes it all without as much as a raised eyebrow, strangely submissive without being shy.

Eventually, he lets her go back to her work-'there's this strange stone tablet we found I'm keeping locked away just in case'- and she walks away with a polite word of farewell.

* * *

He co-habitants find her trying out new recipes once or twice a week, diligently slicing vegetables or adding spices, asking for input on the taste to whoever is at the kitchen at the same time that the witch.

When it's clear this has become part of her new routine, occasionally cooking dinner for everyone, Tony gets her a hideous bright orange apron, decorated with ghosts and black cats. She frowns at Tony, scoffs at the garment.

She wears it every time she's in the kitchen, nevertheless.

A particular night while trying to perfect a _tagliatelle_ recipe _,_ Natasha comes into the kitchen.

Ash offers her a grunted greeting while measuring flour, receives the same from the former assassin's end. And then, to the witch's surprise:

"How are you? Better?"

Ash turns around, flour smeared on her face and apron, confirming that yes, Natasha is indeed talking to her.

And saying pleasantries.

They don't do that, not them. They're not friends, they barely exchange greetings when they see each other, that's pretty much the extent of their relationship. She doesn't mind it.

"I- yes," she replies, "thank you. How are you?"

"Good."

In the strange tension that follows, the witch sort of nods, and goes back to her cooking.

"Can I ask you something?"

Ash assents with her head, mentally counting the eggs she needs to add.

"That dreamcatcher you made, would it work on regular nightmares?"

"Yes."

Ash feels more than hears Natasha shifting her weight somewhere behind her.

"And, on other people?"

The witch cracks a last egg into the bowl, turns around, studies the redhead in front of them. Natasha crosses her arms and studies her right back.

"You want me to make one for you," it's not a question.

"Yes," a heartbeat, "how much would it cost me?"

Ash juggles numbers, chewing her lip along her mental calculations. Then she shrugs.

"Nothing."

Natasha narrows her eyes, "I'm not going to owe you a favour."

"No, of course not. You're too smart for that," Ash nearly-whispers the last part; then the corner of her mouth quirks upwards, "this is an experiment for me, mostly," she turns around again, starts mixing the dough, "doing something nice just to see if I can do it. No profit for me but the possibility of personal growth… or waking up the next day crying blood from my eyes. We'll see, I suppose."

Days later and a dreamcatcher made, they still don't talk, not really, but the frozen not-quite hostility that's between them begins to thaw, just a bit.

* * *

"Stop ignoring me."

Ash blinks suddenly, hums some sort of general platitude, but other than that, her eyes are still glued to her book.

Pietro, in front of her, scoffs.

"Ash."

Nothing. She turns the page, frowns and mutters something in what he's pretty much sure it's another language. God, he can't help but focus on the crease between her eyebrows, can't help but want to smooth it with his thumb…

She bites her lower lip in that way she does when in front of a challenge, and he's had it, she's not supposed to be working this late, anyways, so, before she can even blink, he's right in front of her, blows into her face, intent on startling her into attention and-

Well.

She is startled. Maybe a bit _too_ startled.

She lets the book fall with a _thump_ , closes her eyes when she starts to fall backwards, and then realises that she's not falling anymore.

 _Okay_ , Pietro thinks, body half thrown over the counter and hands holding the witch by her forearms, _that could've gone way better_.

He stops himself from squirming under her narrowed eyes, slowly drags her to an upright position.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" She sounds annoyed and confused and tired, but she sounds like that half the time anyways, so he doesn't think he offended her.

Much.

"Sorry, sorry," he repeats, crossing his arms, "but stop ignoring me."

"What is it?" She sighs, "I'm working, you know-"

"Yes, yes, I know you get all _focused_ ," he spits the word as if it's left a bad taste in his mouth, "but you're not supposed to work _now_."

"Why?"

"Because," _it's one in the morning and you're trying to take better care of yourself,_ he knows he should say, instead he says, "because it's _our_ time. And if you work, you ignore me."

'Our time', he winces. Those two words carry a bit too much meaning for his taste and he's already half-thinking on running away while he still can, before she asks questions or skips that part and guesses altogether and-

And she either doesn't notice or doesn't care, because she only retrieves her book and sits back down, reading again.

Now _he's_ offended.

He's gotten the hint.

He gets up with a huff, intent on walking away- since she _obviously_ doesn't want him around- when her hand shots to grab his wrist.

"Will you stop?" She asks, not really looking at him, "I'm not ignoring you on purpose, I _really_ need to finish this."

He sits back down, frowning, aware she's not letting his wrist go.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"Translating," a beat; she hums, "this guy asked me to translate this for him since he couldn't find any sort of alphabet."

"What guy?"

She shrugs with one shoulder, her fingers tapping idly on his wrist, "some guy. Stephen something. He thinks he's funny."

He makes a noncommittal sound, watches her read for a while, in silence. He turns his hand over, links his fingers with hers… realises she doesn't even look up- when did that happen? When did she stop being wary of human contact- or is it _his_ contact? He smiles to himself, squeezes her hand- she continues reading easily.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking.

Maybe she's just _too_ focused to realise what he's doing.

But if she's not, whatever Game they had been playing before- _well_.

Then he'd be totally winning.

* * *

"Avengers- and witch who happens to live here too, why aren't you in your office, actually?"

"Haunted rabbit skull. Has a chatty spirit." She scrunches up her face, then continues to focus on the book on her hands.

"Okie-dokey not going to comment on that, anyways, Avengers, we have a problem-"

"Shocker."

"I am _not_ subscribed to Mean Witch Daily, but thanks," Tony turns from her to the rest of the room, "anyways, yeah, there's a problem. A minor thing, really."

"Is there another evil robot?" Pietro asks distractedly.

"No-"

"How is _that_ a minor thing?" Steve asks him back.

"Well, we beat one, we can beat another."

"That might be possible," Natasha replies.

Wanda frowns at her brother, "you almost _died_."

"But I didn't!"

"Because of Ash-"

"And she could make sure I don't almost die again."

"If you wanna try it out, I have some new arrows I need to experiment on a target-"

" _Please_ don't undo my job, Clint. You're my favourite, but still," the witch mutters in from her corner.

" _He's_ your favourite?"

"Suck it, fast boy-"

"As if you could catch me with an arrow, old man-"

"I'm _not_ fixing you up again if you bleed on the floor-"

"Shut up! Shut up okay?" Tony gestures to draw attention to him again, "argue later- and okay, I'll pretend I'm not offended by the blatant favouritism of _some_ people here- by the way, I _should_ be your favourite and I'll get back at you with a fifty-item list on why, remind me to do that later- _anyways._ There's a… _situation_."

"Well?" Natasha prompts, "you either say it, or we go see if Clint can put an arrow on Pietro while he's running."

There's a vaguely irritated sound that comes from the corner.

"Anyways, they're still pressuring us about our public image thing- apparently according to public opinion, we're seen as a bit too… violent."

"We stop the bad guys," Steve raises his eyebrows, "and now _we're_ the bad guys?"

"You _do_ cause a lot of damage, besides saving the world," Ash shots distractedly.

"Oh my God why are you so grumpy today?" Tony asks the witch, but doesn't wait until she replies, "yes, well. I mean she _is_ right, and, well. We need to do something that makes us seem more nice and cuddly-"

" _What?_ " Steve gets up from the couch, "I'll say it again, we're the _good_ guys here!"

"I sort of agree with Steve," Natasha says, "besides, what else are we supposed to do? We help with the relief efforts, you donate a lot of money-"

"It's a political thing," Ash mutters, "you pretend you're safer than what you really are, pretend you're toothless when really, you're not. Gain the people's trust. Go under the radar- as much as possible in your case- so big names don't come knocking at your door with a list of things you need to change if you want to keep doing what you do."

"That's… a pretty cutthroat view of the world," Clint replies.

"Look at me," the witch shrugs, "my appearance doesn't exactly screams ' _dangerous blood witch_ ', does it? What's the easiest way to gain someone's trust?"

"Pretend you're harmless," Natasha answers immediately. Ash nods briefly at her, then returns to her book.

"So," Wanda tears her eyes from the witch, looks back at Tony, "what do we do?"

"I've been thinking about it. It should be something public, so it gets media coverage, something that makes people feel close to us, you know, feel that we're _people_ too, so maybe something sort of mundane? Something that people can have fun with?"

"So, what, like a party?" Pietro asks.

"I was thinking something more like… a barbecue."

"A barbecue." Clint deadpans.

"Well I mean," Tony lists, "it's public, makes us seem friendly, everybody loves good food…"

* * *

"What _are_ you doing?" Tony asks her.

"I'm stuck."

She's staring at him upside down, legs over the back of the couch, hands folded over her stomach.

"….On the couch?" He asks warily.

"No," she rolls her eyes, "stuck in the translation. I need a minute to think about anything that's not translating or I will explode."

"Okay," he walks up to her, sits next to the witch, "so what you think you'd be in? Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin or Hufflepuff?"

She covers her face. Exhales. Tries not to scream.

"What the _hell_ is a Hufflepuff?"

Tony opens his mouth- and it's cut out by a rattling sound that comes from the hallway.

"What's that?"

Ash, face still covered, groans.

" _Girl"_ , a voice makes itself known, " _I do not appreciate to be left talking alone. Come back here and let's resume our discussion!"_

Ash, face still covered, groans louder.

"Again," Tony says, "what's that? Is it dangerous?"

"No," the witch mutters, "just highly annoying."

The rattling noise becomes louder until a small skull rolls through the threshold, and Tony's eyebrows shot up when he realises the voice is coming from it.

" _Girl, I demand your attention! I, Enserric the Great-"_

Ash clicks her tongue and, without opening her eyes, throws a cushion in its general direction.

" _How disrespectful!_ " The skull exclaims, " _You should know that when I was alive, people treated me…"_

The billionaire ignores the ranting in favour to look at the witch for guidance- she looks tired, vaguely annoyed, but not concerned, so he lets the red flags that popped up upon the intrusion lower back again.

"Haunted rabbit skull," the witch mutters, "hasn't shut up for a single second."

In the background, the skull keeps its tirade, occasionally rolling from one place to another, loose bones rattling with its movements.

"Can't you just, I don't know, smash it?"

"I _want_ to. So bad," Ash props herself up on her elbows, "but he says he was a powerful sorcerer before he died. He could know things. Sadly, I like knowing things."

" _People bowed down to me-!"_

"Talk to me about something else," the witch pleads, "seriously, anything."

"Uh, okay," Tony runs a hand down his face, "uh, the barbecue's tomorrow?"

"Yes, I can work with that. Thanks. Is everything ready?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, "I mean, I know a lot of the guys aren't really enthusiastic about this but I think it's for the best, honestly. Who knows, it might be fun and all."

"Mhm," she detachedly agrees, "people seem to like sunshine and food. You'll have fun."

" _I?"_

"Plural you, I mean."

"No, no, I got that," he turns to face her fully, "what I meant is, you _do_ know you're invited, right?"

"What?"

"Oh my God. How could you think you weren't invited?"

Ash shrugs with one shoulder, face scrunched up, "I'm not an Avenger. Thank God. And please don't say this is a convoluted plot to try and recruit me because _no thank you._ "

Tony rolls his eyes, "This a public thing. And you're like part of the family anyways- like that one cousin who said was going to take a sabbatical year, then it turned to a sabbatical indefinite period of time, and you don't see them really often but hey, when they visit they bring back cool souvenirs from weird places they go to!"

"That's," she licks her lips, "oddly specific."

She tries not to let the word 'family' get stuck in her head. She fails.

"Are you okay? You look a bit… distressed."

"I'm fine," the witch shots up from the couch, "I need to go back to work," on her way out, she hooks two fingers into the eye sockets of the skull, and lets it dangle from her hand while she walks.

Family.

That's a heavy word to use.

" _What is it, girl? You look like you're about to cry."_

"Shut up, Enserric."

* * *

It's four thirty-two in the morning. He could manage another hour and a half of sleep.

He could.

Normally, he would, too.

But it smells like cookies, and it should _not_ smell like cookies at four thirty-two in the morning.

What are the chances that Ash simply woke up super early to make cookies for breakfast?

Almost non-existent, that's the answer; so even though he _could_ sleep another hour and a half, he doesn't, because overworked witches should _not_ bake in the middle of the night when it's highly likely that they haven't slept at all.

He grunts, moves carefully around Lucky- and what's the point, really, that dog sleeps like a log- and pads slowly to the kitchen.

* * *

"What do you think?" Ash asks thoughtfully, "too much white chocolate?"

" _You're asking a skull for advice?"_

"Apparently."

" _Well, here's some advice: don't do that."_

"I should have brought Tub instead of you," she gently massages her temples, managing to spread flour into her hair.

" _Nonsense, my company is way better than his. He can't even talk."_

The witch starts forming balls out of the dough, presses them on a well-oiled tray, "but _do_ we know he can't talk? Maybe he actually can and just has a fun time making us think he can't. Maybe he just likes to see us trying to decipher his various hues of hissing-"

" _Girl-"_

"I mean, I'm not really sure what he even _is_ really, or where did he come from, what if he's really smart and just hates interaction?" she checks the oven temperature, puts the tray inside, checks the temperature again, "because if that's the case, that'd be very smart of him-"

" _Girl, stop yourself-"_

"You know what?" She gestures wildly around herself, "I think I'm convincing myself of this theory, actually, I really think-"

" _For the love of God, shut up!"_

The witch blinks owlishly, interrupted mid-rambling. She runs her hands through her hair, presses her palms against her eyes.

" _You're stress-baking."_

"I'm _pretty_ close to an emotional breakdown, so," her eyes feel oddly watery. She's not having any of that.

It wasn't supposed to affect her this much, words are her territory, and if she can go head-to-head against Aidan in all sorts of verbal warfare without so much as batting an eye, this shouldn't be so hard to ignore, right?

It's not at all logical to her that just a word- a single word accompanied by sentiment- leave her in such a state; emotions rebelling, a thread away from crying.

She likes logic.

She does _not_ like that whatever's going on inside her mind seem to have chosen to ignore it completely.

'You've gotten soft', Aidan's voice sing-songs in her brain- and on a tangent, she wonders if he also has her voice ingrained inside his mind.

"I know," she whispers inside her hands, "I _know,_ but why does that has to be so bad?"

She thinks that whatever her therapist is doing at the moment- sleeping like a normal person, probably- she might still be able to feel a twinge of pride for her progress.

Oh well.

It could be worse- at least the only testimony of her state is the ancient spirit of a sorcerer trapped inside the skull of a rabbit, and-

And of course she only has to think about that and the door opens. Of course.

She steels herself, face still buried in her hands.

"Ash? What are you doing?"

And of course it's him. It would've been too much to ask for his sister or- hell, even Natasha, she probably just would check she wasn't poisoning anything and then go away.

"Baking," she grounds out from behind her hands.

(Inside, her mind is producing some sort of continued high-pitched white noise).

Pietro takes in the state of the kitchen, the sheer number and varieties of diverse baked goods that cover almost every flat surface in the room, the flour and sugar over the counter- and on the floor- and the tiny witch in the middle of the baking maelstrom.

"Baking for an army?" He asks carefully, taking a step closer to her.

The high-pitched mental screech becomes louder in her head.

" _Ah! Young man, perhaps you can make this girl see reason-"_

Pietro startles at the sound, trying to find the source of the sudden voice.

" _No, higher, I'm up here on the counter, behind the flour bag-"_

"What _is_ that?"

"Haunted rabbit skull," Ash manages to dull out the sound, "ignore it."

" _Why that's highly impolite for you to say, girl-"_

With a huff, the witch swipes a hand to the side, effectively throwing the skull to the floor with a clatter- and an indignant noise of surprise.

" _Young lady now see here-!"_

"Great, I'm upgraded to young lady now."

" _Of all of the rude, ridiculous, absolutely awful to deal with-"_

"Enserric. Go away."

Pietro watches, glued to his spot, as the skull commences to roll away and in direction to the hallway, all of the while muttering about 'terribly rude youths with no regard towards anything'.

He finds the entire thing creepy, honestly, but there are more important matters at hand at the moment.

Once his voice cannot be heard anymore, he focuses his attention on the witch once again.

"Ash?" He calls.

With a noiseless sigh, she turns around, plastering a smile on her lips, "yes?"

He takes her in- she looks absolutely haggard. Her hair is fighting- and for the most part succeeding- to escape from a bun, her apron is covered in flour- as are several parts of her face and neck and her eyes-

Oh.

He wants to come closer, thinks better of it, allows her room to herself instead.

He still asks, "were you crying?"

"If I say no, can we pretend you believe me?"

"No."

She lets her head hang, mutters something that sounds vaguely insulting in another language.

"Technically, I've been _trying_ not to cry," she blinks a few times. Then, a few more, when tears threaten to fall once again.

"What's wrong?" His voice is so, so gentle.

To his surprise she laughs- and it almost sounds joyful- "nothing, really, I'm just being stupid."

"Well," he shifts his weight, takes a single step forward, to gather her reaction, "it is not stupid if it upsets you."

She angles her body away from him, and he knows she's not going to talk about it if she doesn't want to talk about it- but that's not okay, not when she looks like this, and just what does one do with an emotionally vulnerable witch that isn't really big on something as simple as human contact?

He knows what he'd do if it was anyone else.

He knows what he _wants_ to do, even if it _is_ an emotionally vulnerable witch that isn't really big on something as simple as human contact.

So, in a gamble, he shots her half a smile, opens one arm and gestures with his hand on the universal motion for 'come here'.

She doesn't.

Instead, she stills, looks down at her apron, back at him, and says:

"I'm covered in flour."

He shrugs, "who cares?"

He expects her to be skittish about it, to approach him warily, slowly- instead, she crosses the distance between them with long strides and all but dives under his arms and into his chest.

 _Okay_ , he thinks, as his arms automatically envelop her, as he feels her shoulders shake, _what do you do with an armful of crying witch?_

Slowly, he starts to rub circles on her back, says a thousand and one variations of 'it's okay', and as her crying starts to subside, she starts to talk between hiccups.

"I think my emotions are staging a mutiny," it's the first thing she says, "it's very dumb really, just," she sniffles, "Tony said I'm invited tomorrow and," she takes a shaky breath, "and he said I'm part of the family- whatever that means- and I have no idea what's gotten into me. No, not really- I think I just don't know how to process affection."

He doesn't quite know how to answer that, so instead he asks her:

"Are all these things for tomorrow?"

"…Yes."

"You are adorable."

"I," she snorts, "am a very dangerous blood witch."

"Also adorable."

She huffs against him, pushes against his chest and raises her head to look at him in the eye with all of the righteous fury she can manage.

(With her puffy eyes and blotched face, the effect is absolutely lost, but he's not going to be the one to tell her that.)

"I'm _not_."

He smiles, "sure."

"Whatever," to his surprise- not that he's complaining, really,- she presses back against him, cheek against his chest, "just shut up."

Okay.

He can do that.

Especially if that means she's going to be in his arms for an indefinite period of time and- God, he rolls his eyes at his own thoughts.

She's soft and small and so very dangerous and he's seen her spitting out snakes and covered in blood and he just-

He stops his train of thought. One day, he's going to sit down and have a very honest conversation with himself in which he will admit to the privacy of his own mind, he will label whatever the Something he feels whenever the witch is involved.

Today, however, is not that day.

Eventually she calms down, loosens her grip on him and takes half a step back.

"Thanks, Pietro."

Oh.

Is this- _no_.

But it _is_. And with a sudden burst of awareness, he realises that she's never called him by name, not to his face, at least.

Oh no.

He's impulsive- very much so- and he makes a conscious effort to tone it down with her, but sometimes, _sometimes_ it's just very hard to do.

By the time he takes half a step forward to bring her into the circle of his arms again he's already regretting it; yet still, he bends down- she is _so_ short- and places a single kiss on the crown of her head.

And then he mentally curses when he feels the witch stiffen.

That's it, he's absolutely ruined everything, he's going to avoid him for days on end now, he's sure of it-

And then she melts against him.

She doesn't hug him back this time, just lets him hold her, suddenly pliant, trusting.

It's with a slightly curiosity in her voice that she says:

"Do that again?"

So he does, he places another kiss to her hair, and she closes her eyes tightly, waiting for the rage, the violence to come up bubbling from her throat, the need for blood that…. That doesn't really come.

How strange.

With a frown, she steps away from him.

It's not entirely unwelcome, the lack of those particular feelings, but she's never been one too keen on sudden changes.

"How strange," she simply comments.

"What?"

"Nothing," she dismisses, turns back and rushes to take the cookies out of the oven.

However much ill she wishes against sudden changes in her life, she still has to admit that she's certainly calmer than what she'd been before.

* * *

"Go to sleep."

"But there's still another batch in the oven!"

"I'll take care of it," he herds her into the hallway, half considering just throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to her room.

"But you have to take them out in _exactly_ fifteen minutes!"

"Yeah, yeah," he maintains his previous assessment. She _is_ adorable.

"I mean that, really. And everything's counted, so don't eat it."

He pushes her back gently through the door, sidesteps a potted plant, "yeah, yeah."

"Oh, don't do that," she stops, narrows her eyes at him, "don't be condescending."

"I would _never_ ," he pushes her again, stays until she's under the covers of her bed.

"Stop it," she orders while basking on the warmth of her bed, "it's not cute."

He mockingly gasps, puts a hand over his heart, "I'm _very_ cute."

He barely avoids the throwing pillow sent on his direction.

* * *

 **But why did I get an Occamy as a patronus, what does that mean?**

 **(Does any of you get the silly references in this chapter? Is any of my readers old enough to have played those old bioware rpgs?)**


	16. Chapter 16

**Guess what I'm not dead just awful.**

* * *

 **Chapter XVI**

 **Latin-American Love Poetry**

 **Or:**

 **The author cuts this chapter short because she needs to work on her novel or she's shaving her head**

 _ **Or:**_

 _ **#Pining**_

* * *

Laying on the bed, with Tub curled around her ankles and holding the rabbit skull over her head, the witch asks:

"Why do you think we need human contact?"

" _Dear girl, I'm an ancient sorcerer more powerful than what your young mind could even begin to comprehend."_

"So," she rotates it slightly, looking directly into the eye sockets, "that means you don't know?"

"… _I can't say I've ever particularly thought about it."_

"Oh?"

" _I was very busy! Doing important sorcerer things."_

"Sure," she smiles, cheekily.

" _Oh, I don't need to explain myself to you."_

"Of course."

Stealing a glance at the glowing numbers from her clock, she stifles a sigh. Two hours to get a shower, pick an outfit, and mentally prepare herself for an afternoon with way more exposition than what she's comfortable with.

She's not going.

" _Don't you need to get ready instead of pestering me about strange psychological aspects of humanity?"_

She's not going.

(Maybe that blue dress that goes with the strand of hair that she died, paired with the ridiculous cat tights Tony gave her at some point or another. She still doesn't like cats.)

She's not going.

"I was just curious, I've never really _needed_ human touch. I've actually avoided it unless essential- well, until now. Why do you think that is?"

" _I am not your therapist. Put me down and go do whatever it is that needs doing."_

She's not going.

(Should she braid her hair? Leave its natural mess of waves untied? She's never had this much trouble picking her clothes.)

She's _not_ going.

With a huff, she lets the skull drop on the bed next to her, and gets up, ignoring the indignant squawk. She really needs to take a shower unless she wants to be late.

Later, dressed and with her makeup done, she picks up Enserric once again, holds him in level with her face.

"Do you know any Hamlet?" She question him, eyes shining with mischief.

(And if she reckons that until recently, she's never had a playful side on her, one that's innocent and light instead of poisonous and cutting, she ignores it. She also ignores the possible influence that made it happen.

' _I'm very cute'_ , a voice echoes, teasing and airy and everything she should hate.)

" _Powerful sorcerer, dearest child, and you expect me to break into a soliloquy of some silly play or another?"_

She clicks her tongue, "don't slander the Bard, _dearest_ ," she debates whether tossing him into a corner; places him on the windowsill instead.

He seems to enjoy killing time by looking at people passing by- and judging them.

"I'll try to bring you loose change," Ash says, receives a happy hiss in return from under the bed, a smoky tendril that stretches until it taps her ankle, twice, then retreats back.

By the door, she stops, looks back to the skull-

"Enserric?"

" _Yes?"_

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer; the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune-"

" _Had I had hands, I would be slapping you, bear no doubt of that."_

She's still smirking by the time she's out of the elevator.

* * *

There's too much people.

Unsure of what to do, she stays on the sidelines, out of the way of cameras and chatter and- dear Lord- _children._

Just _why_ are there so many children anyways?

Oh, right. Superheroes. Children like those.

Sometimes she forgets about that part, but that's natural when you share your living space with other people, when you see them on a daily basis in their underwear, barely awake and gulping down coffee.

At least nobody is paying her any attention- under the shade of a tree, she might be anyone, no one, a fan of the Avengers, a girl just trying to read her book who happens to be at the same place the barbecue is being held, certainly not a blood witch with ties to S.H.I.E.L.D.

There's a few times that Tony tries to make his way to her, the one time he's not swarmed by cameras or eager fans he manages to walk halfway where she's sitting before she takes a look around to make sure no one is watching her, and turns her pupils to slits, lets a snake-like tongue peek through her lips. That stops him, sends her message right and clear:

 _Don't._

Tony furrows his brow, in concern or curiosity, but his attention is instantly caught by a boy in an Iron Man costume who's excitedly talking to him.

She's not angry. She isn't.

But she knows that where Tony Stark goes, cameras naturally follow, and, well, Ash has never been particularly fond of the public eye. She still pays a ridiculous sum to Aidan every month to make sure she stays a ghost- her clients usually find her by word of mouth anyways, or she gets her jobs directly from Malcolm.

She buries her nose in her book once again, eyes smoothly gliding through the words, faintly smiling to herself. Sometimes she wonders if she enjoys beauty because her life is so devoid of it; if she surrounds herself with paintings and love poetry to balance the blood and darkness.

(And sometimes, she too finds beauty _in_ the blood and darkness, a heavy kind of beauty, dimmed by layers of bitterness, almost ironic in its very own existence. But beauty, she knows, doesn't mean nice, or right, or good.)

She realizes she's read the past verses twice now without paying attention, sighs and tries again.

" _Cuanto te habrá dolido acostumbrarte a mí,  
a mi alma sola y salvaje, a mi nombre que todos ahuyentan."_

There's something there, in between those verses, that rubs her the wrong way, that calls for something deep inside her for her to break and analyse those words, those feelings.

She feels like she's sat on pincushions, she feels the same way whenever Aidan smiles because he turned to be right.

She turns the page, switches to another poem. This one she reads easily, and the next few, before she rises her eyes once more.

Steve is talking to his friend Sam, who in turn is waving his hands enthusiastically and trying to talk around a mouthful. Steve suddenly gestures his head towards the witch, and his companion turns to look at her too.

Ash blinks.

Sam looks at her, points with his free hand to the rest of the brownie he's holding, then gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Ash blinks again.

Then, stoically, she nods once. The men go back to their discussion.

(She pretends she's not smiling, but even blood witches suffer from vanity sometimes.)

" _Y las miro lejanas mis palabras.  
Más que mías son tuyas.  
Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras._

 _Ellas trepan así por las paredes húmedas._  
 _Eres tú la culpable de este juego sangriento."_

She snorts at the last verse, takes it out of context and realises how familiar it sounds.

Lucky barks at some point in the background, she's vaguely aware of Pietro throwing him something for the dog to catch, of people around him, of talking and laughing and the general atmosphere of easiness around him.

He's very social, she knows, and questions once again how can he stand her, with her silences and general gloominess- then again, they met through blood and pain and death, and maybe that's what makes them fit despite her rough edges.

(There was, still is, an adaptation period, her trying to smooth out her sharp corners, him trying to work around her boundaries, to know when to press and when to hastily retreat. It's not effortless, it's never been, but she's thankful for him trying in the first place, because the friendship- what an odd word, she thinks- they formed means something to her.

She can't imagine her nights reading in the kitchen alone anymore, he's a part of the ambient now, a constant she can afford to relax with.)

He throws his arms over his head in an enthusiastic gesture; the witch's eyes immediately focus on the edge of the scar that becomes visible. It's a tiny thing, with the distance she's put between them she wouldn't be able to see it unless she knew it was there.

And she knows.

It's been a long while since she'd needed to check on them- the bullet wounds had scarred, it hadn't been her best job, and sometimes she wonders if he knows that healing has never come easily for her- no, she makes the blood run, in rivulets, in scarlet rivers; her talents, however academical at her most peaceful, had always been leaning towards destruction.

If she had to do it again- well. She doubts she could perform another stunt like that.

Distractedly, she runs the pads of her fingers over her own scars, the runes on her arm- _scars_ , she thinks, _how fitting that it's scars that tie them together._

Ash returns to Neruda- or, well, tries to, because there's giggling to her left, a group of teenagers, pretty girls with colourful nails that huddle close together and whisper to each other before dissolving in another fit of giggles.

How would it have been like, to be like that? To be fifteen and worry about a bad hair day instead of translating ancient tomes, sixteen and cry because of heartbreak instead of staying up all night vomiting blood, seventeen and smile because of a kiss instead of grinning after leaving the round red imprint of a cigarette on Aidan's wrist.

She doesn't resent her past- if anything, she resents her _mother_ \- but she can't help, sometimes, to wonder if her inner demons would exist if there hadn't been blood magic in her growing up, or if one way or another, she'd always end up on this path.

The girls' nervous laughter reaches her ears again and makes the witch will away her soul-searching tendencies; she sees the group push one of them forward, a tall thing, with a head full of golden curls and just the hint of a blush in her cheeks.

Ash watches her walk, cross the distance with unsure steps until she's in front of – _oh_.

She watches the group of girls giggle again, while the blond one puts a smile on her face, apparently asks Pietro for a picture- to which he smiles widely, even dares to wink at the girl, and Ash thinks the poor kid might explode, judging by the colour of her face.

She hears the group squealing, hushing each other while still making a great amount of noise- and she can't help the snort that comes out of her nose, the eyeroll that follows- it's only a second too late when she realises the girls were closer than she thought, and that somehow, they heard her judgemental noise over their own racket.

One of them, the boldest one, with dark hair and dark eyes, crosses her arms at her, all teenage bravado and sense of invincibility.

"What's your problem?"

Ash looks at the girl. She doesn't reply, not verbally, instead, schools her face into that carefully neutral expression she's practiced so much it's second nature now; she stares at her long and hard, dissecting her, inspecting her, until she can see her fighting to squirm in her place. The witch rises an eyebrow, barely, and then the girl looks away, feeling oddly studied and intimidated by this tiny woman with a soft face and love poetry in her hands.

They go, follow the steps of their blonde friend.

He looks so at ease at the centre of attention, surrounded by teenagers who asks for selfies, autographs, if he can say their names out loud in that accent of his- and he complies with everything, all roguish smiles and charm.

God.

She's petty.

So petty.

It's not a strange sensation, that ugly beast rearing its head inside her, making her know its displeasure- she wants to see red, wants to call Aidan, goad him until he pulls her hair, until she bites the tender spot between his thumb and index fingers, wants for blood to run free-

'So fucking territorial', he'd called her once, twice, many times over the years.

He's not hers. He's not- logically, she knows, you can't own a person but-

Her eyes narrow slightly when he plants a chaste kiss on the cheek of that one girl, the one who tried to confront her.

 _Territorial_.

He's not hers-

Except he _is_.

 _Territorial._

Aidan may think it an Ash thing, like not owning a single pair of pants, but she's never met a single magic practitioner who wasn't as _fucking territorial_ as she is- over things, places, people. She's heard of some who don't think twice of killing another witch just for stepping inside what they consider their territory, and, okay, maybe she's not as bad as _that_ , sure, but still-

He's one hundred fucking percent _hers_.

They _all_ are, she thinks, eyes roaming over the people she shares her living space with, even Natasha, who's civil with her at best. It's not about affection, not about emotional attachment- it's just the way it is.

They're hers.

And, she knows, any other witch who goes near them will be able to tell; they reek of her particular brand of magic, the tower pulses with dozens of protection spells, wards carefully etched on windowsills and doorframes, and the much, much less benign incantations she's carefully weaved into all of their hair strands, around their eyes, inside their veins.

Those spells promise death and worse things than death to any who harms them- who touches them in any way she disapproves.

Her way is destruction, that's a truth she can't deny.

 _Peace through violence_ , she thinks, and no, they would not approve, of course they wouldn't, but it's thank to those silent threats of vengeance that since she'd been living with them, no sort of witch, sorcerer, blood-fuelled or otherwise, has even tried to get close.

They're _hers_.

Pietro's still surrounded by the gaggle of star-struck girls, enjoying the attention and it just _so_ happens that that one girl, the one he'd kissed on the cheek, looks her way and he's distracted with the others so he won't know if she-

For the second time that day, Ash lets a bifid tongue slide past her lips- her eyes turn black this time, less reptile, more demonic. The girl audibly yelps, takes an instinctive step back in fear.

When he glances at her general direction, brows furrowed looking for what could have spooked the girl so suddenly, his eyes find her soft angles and big eyes, filled with- carefully constructed- innocence, head tilted slightly _so_ to convey curiosity, as if she'd noticed the reaction of the girl and was looking for the source, too.

He smiles at her- _hers_.

 _Petty_ , she thinks, _she's so petty_.

* * *

"Did you even eat anything?"

Ash opens an eye, stares at Wanda lazily. She'd been about to fall asleep under her tree, enjoying the stray autumn sunbeams filtered through the branches.

She shrugs as an answer.

" _Ash-"_ The other girl starts to admonish, and the witch rolls her eyes with a smile.

"I'm not hungry, really," she shrugs again, her demeanour strangely peaceful, "and there's too many people near the food anyways."

Wanda sighs.

"You are supposed to enjoy this-"

"I _am_ ," Ash interrupts. The grass is soft under her and nobody has come to bother her in at least two hours. "I promise you, I am. But thank you- for caring."

Wanda opens her mouth- but whatever she'd been about to say is drowned into a shrill screech of ' _Scarlet Witch!'_

A little girl, maybe six, is waving at her enthusiastically, dragging her father behind her to meet her heroine.

Ash stares at the kid, eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong? You don't like kids?"

The witch shrugs, not taking her eyes from the little girl, and in a confession under her breath:

"They terrify me."

Wanda starts to laugh, realises the solemnity of her friend's expression.

"You are serious." Her eyebrows rise. "Children?"

" _Yes,_ " she grimaces, "well, and spiders."

"So if there was a five year old with a spider on his hand-"

"I would set them both on fire and run away screaming. Please go away before you attract _children_ to me."

* * *

With the sun low in the sky, there's few people left, most choosing to go to the comfort of their homes before the temperature drops too much. It'd been exceptionally warm and sunny for autumn, but the approaching night makes no promises of maintaining the heat.

Ash is content to observe the people starting to leave, Neruda closed on her lap, lost in her field of grass and leaves and the odd autumn flower; under her tree, she is alone. And then she's not.

She barely jumps anymore when Pietro's suddenly sitting next to her- still she shots him a half-hearted glare. He answers with a smile.

"What's that?" He gestures towards her lap.

"A book."

He rolls his eyes, makes the universal 'give me' motion with right hand, so Ash gives him the book. It's thin, worn. The cover reads _'Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Canción Desesperada'._

Pietro opens the book distractedly, skims through words he doesn't understand, "how many languages do you speak?"

"Fluently?" Ash considers, "about eight, I know some others but it's mostly basic stuff with terrible pronunciation."

He shoots her a smile, "but not Sokovian?"

"Not Sokovian," a grimace, "I rushed there knowing barely more than a few phrases, honestly."

He nods, eyes on the words once again; then he's thrusting the book into her hands, pointing a random passage, "what does it say here?"

The witch rolls her eyes.

She complies anyways, reading out loud:

"How you must have…" she falters briefly, realising she's translating the same verses she'd been having trouble with before. She darts a look at Pietro; he's expectant, so she licks her lips and continues. " _How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,_ " she doesn't dare looking at him, " _my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running."_

"That's…. That's love poetry?" It sounds less a question, more an affirmation.

Ash nods, there's something they're not discussing, something she refuses to discuss. Whatever it is, it's stuck in her throat, in her lungs. He's silent for a while.

 _How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me-_

And how right those words seem, suddenly, how real, tangible- it hardly seems fair; it isn't, she knows, not for him-

 _My savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running-_

She's suited for destruction. She knows poisons, torture, hexes. Things that are intrinsically good, _pure_ , harm her.

It hardly seems fair.

He's quiet still, now idly playing with a nearby smattering of tiny blue flowers that bravely peek through fallen leaves.

"I think," he starts, his voice coarse, "that love is never easy."

"I wouldn't know- but I'm sure the easy ones are rarely written about."

"You wouldn't know?"

She snorts, as if it's the most obvious thing- and shouldn't it be, really? How would someone like her know something about love? There's poetry and prose she's read about- for beauty, not sincerity. Love is not an all-redeeming force, is not something that changes the core of a person; you can't eat love, can't pay your debts with love, no matter how hard writers try to make it seem otherwise.

"Would you?" She doesn't think when she says it, it comes out sardonic, cynic.

It's a mistake.

He looks at her, with eyes wide, taken aback by her question, and there's something there, something _raw_ and _sad_ and why? _Why, why, why-_

She closes her eyes, tight. She doesn't want to keep looking into eyes that are a shade too deep, doesn't want to think of whatever emotions are brewing there, of things she doesn't think she understands-

 _Why, why, why had he looked so sad just then?_

She doesn't understand.

She hates not understanding.

She can't breathe, she can't hear anything but the thrumming of her own blood in her ears, she swallows with a throat padded with cotton, and why, _why, why, why_ -

"Here."

Her eyes open to soft blue petals and no trace of that strange chord of sadness. She's relieved for a minute, then confused, blinking at the offering in his hand.

"You like flowers."

"I do," she affirms.

He's in her space then, brushing her hair back with his fingers, placing the flower behind her ear. His eyes are all good-intended mischief and warmth once again- that, she can take, that's familiar to her, even if the action takes her by surprise.

"It matches your dress," his voice is softer, maybe.

"It does," her voice is softer too.

There's a moment, suspended there in time and space, in which she just looks at him, and he looks back.

So, so _blue_.

Ash stands up so suddenly that she sways a moment, "I…" she scrambles for words, Neruda tightly clasped in her hands, "I have to-"

She's got no excuse, not really.

She knows this.

She also knows that he probably knows it, too. So she's not going to lie, not going to waste their time with pretexts; instead she just shrugs, a grimace on her face, silently pleading that he understands her voiceless apology- and for what is she apologising? She has no idea, not really.

Watching her walk away, Pietro notices, half-smiling, that she's left the flower in her hair.

He sighs.

Right there, in between autumn leaves and love poetry, he could have kissed her.

* * *

 **Since ffnet hates links, the first verses are from poem 14,** _ **Juegas todos los días,**_ **and the second verses are from poem 5,** _ **Para que tu me oigas.**_ **You can find both the full poems and translations at** **albalearning X com** **/audiolibros/neruda/**

 **(The author slightly disagrees with poem 5 translation, and for the sake of this story, she would translate it as 'you are to blame for this bloody game', since blood is a major theme for our protagonist.)**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter XVII**

 **Distractions**

 **Or:**

 **Bee's McDonald's scene – in which the author's nerd tendencies show.**

* * *

The fridge is empty.

It shouldn't be as big of a deal as it is- alas, he had fallen asleep straight after a shower and hadn't had dinner.

Pietro frowns, considering his options:

He could cook, but he didn't particularly feel like doing so- and even if he did, he wasn't great at it anyways.

He could find someone to cook for him, but given it was one in the morning, he desisted instantly. Everyone else was asleep, except, maybe, for the witch, but he wasn't about to interrupt her working- or spellcasting, or whatever she did right before bed.

Or, he could go to the McDonald's around the corner, the one that was open all night, and have a greasy, late dinner.

With his mind made up, Pietro puts on a jacket and shoes, and runs outside.

* * *

At a first glance the place is empty except for maybe a small group of teenagers- hungover? Still drunk? Who knows at this point- so he goes up to the counter, places his order to an overworked and underpaid guy. He looks half dead, blinking perhaps a little less than what he should, and Pietro's heart goes out to him.

A few minutes later he's handed a paper bag and his drink. He turns around, vaguely glancing at the rambunctious teenagers- and then he catches a mess of white waves splayed on the cheap surface of a table by the back of the joint.

Is that…?

He marches straight towards the table, frowning at the figure slumped over it, and sits resolutely opposite to her.

"Ash?"

A mumble- indistinctive words, _very_ distinctive annoyance.

That confirmed it then.

"What are you doing here?" he says, then notes the amount of fast food trash around her, "did you eat all that?"

The witch makes a noise from underneath her mass of hair that sounds enough like a 'yes'.

Okay then. That's settled.

"Are you okay?"

An ambiguous sound.

Pietro sighs, tries to put a hand on her head- she swats it away. _Rude._

But at least she's not obviously bleeding, and if it was an emergency of some kind, he seriously doubts a fast food chain would be the first place she'd go.

So, taking his drink to his lips, he decides to do what will probably cause the fastest reaction in her- irritate her. He leans forward on his seat and starts blowing bubbles into his soda, making noise right in front of her. Ten seconds pass. Thirty. A full minute.

Finally, Ash raises her head from the table, cheek supported in a palm, "I hate you so much sometimes."

He takes her appearance in- she looks annoyed, tired, there are black circles under her eyes.

He leans back, his drink forgotten in his hand.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

There's half a shrug from the witch, "Yes. I'm just tired."

He takes his food from the paper bag- might as well eat it here, since she's so obviously reticent to get up.

"Trouble with translating?"

"No."

"A curse you can't break?"

"Not even close."

"….Aidan?"

She snorts, uses her free hand to steal one of his fries. "Planehopping."

"Oh," he replies, as if he understood anything of that.

She steals another fry, elaborates, "Essentially, travelling to other realms of existence- other planes. It makes me tired."

"Takes a lot of energy?"

"Sure it can- but it's more to do with me having spent the last seventy-two hours in between devils and other planar beings. They're stressful to be around."

He makes a face, "I suppose- wait. You haven't been in the Tower in three days?"

She raises her eyebrows in an incredulous gesture, steals more of his fries. Her face reads carefully 'well, duh'.

"I just thought you were sleeping when everybody else was awake- or just wanted to be alone!"

She hums.

"How do you do that? Go away without us knowing?"

There's a lazy smile at the corner of her lips, "Mirrors. If you know what you're doing, you can create portals- connect them to established gateways. You can also use them to communicate, actually, any reflective surface, for that matter." She shrugs. "I could show you sometime."

He nods instantly, opening his mouth but closing it again when her hand goes to his carton of fries once more. With a sigh, he pushes them towards her.

"How are you so hungry?"

She stops chewing, narrows her eyes at him. Pietro throws his hands up in mock surrender.

"Listen," she points at him with a fry, "when you spend three days in the fucking _City of Doors_ dealing with the Lady of Pain herself, you get to eat as much as you want."

He doesn't even try to hide his smile, "who's the Lady of Pain?"

The question seems to defuse her instantly. Ash takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. "She's… the ruler of Sigil. Probably omnipotent- nobody knows really what she is," a rueful smile, "quite an enigmatic entity, actually."

He frowns around a mouthful of his burger, "so she's what," he swallows, "some kind of godde-"

Ash suddenly throws herself over the table, eyes wide, palms over his mouth. There's a moment of silence before she retreats to her seat once again, running a hand through her hair. A look around the place shows her the teenagers have paid no attention to her sudden movement. She nods to herself, content.

"Sorry," she winces, "I don't really know what can set her off- you're not in pain, are you?"

"I- uh, no."

"Good." She sighs," Some things-" she stops, wets her lips. Starts again. "The world I'm part of can be very dangerous sometimes. It's best if you don't ask much about it- just, don't ever even _think_ about the Lady of Pain again."

He nods, uncertain.

Ash continues:

"What I do," she shrugs, "I'm very good at it- I even enjoy a lot of aspects of it. And it's the only life I can picture for myself. But-" she frowns, "that doesn't mean I want any of you remotely close to that world. _Especially you."_

He frowns. Should he be offended? It sounded like an accusation.

"Why me?"

"You're the most impulsive-"

"I'm _not_." Okay, he _should_ be offended then. Right?

The witch snorts, regards him with a look that's probably not as impersonal as she would've liked.

"Chances are, you'd do something to get you killed- and trust me, saving your life once was exhausting enough, not worth it doing it again."

"You have said that before," he snorts.

"Well, yes. Because it's true."

Pietro narrows his eyes at her, but smiles nevertheless. It ridiculous, he thinks, how even looking like a mess under the absolutely not flattering light of a fast food restaurant and surrounded by greasy leftovers he finds her pretty.

The lights are harsh on her brow, cast endless shadows under her eyes, and isn't that fitting for a woman who's a maze of light and shadows, anyways?

She's not half as bad as she makes herself to be.

But, he knows, she's not as entirely good as he tells her she is.

Somewhere the both notions meet and paint her in hues of greys, in the same desaturated scheme of her wardrobe.

(And if he's lucky, perhaps, with a pop of blue here and there…)

"You're quiet," she observes, "what is it?"

He shrugs. He considers for the briefest second just blurting it out; 'you're beautiful and it's not just because you look pretty', 'you're beautiful and you have no idea how much I want to kiss you every day', 'you're beautiful and dangerous and I still can't believe you trust me'-

But no. It wouldn't be fair to her, would it?

 _('I think that love is never easy.'_

' _I wouldn't know.')_

No. It wouldn't be fair to her at all.

"I think you would save me again."

She arches an eyebrow, challenging, the gleam on her eyes barely hidden by the flatness of her expression. "How do you know that?"

Lights and shadows.

He still doesn't know her in entirety- and, is pretty certain that even in a hundred years there would be still undiscovered facets.

But, he likes to think, he knows her enough.

He shrugs again, "I just do."

"Arrogant, aren't you?" She clicks her tongue in reprimand, but does nothing to hide the smile slowly spreading on her lips.

Yes.

He knows her enough.

"Is not there a saying? Something about pots and kettles?"

The witch huffs, throws at him a balled up napkin that he catches anyways. She opens her mouth to argue- it's childish, so very childish, but he likes to think that they aren't exactly above it, on occasion, so before she can actually talk, he shoves the remaining fries inside her mouth.

He's surprised that she allows that; much more surprised that she allows the pad of his thumb to slowly trace her lower lip on his retreat, a barely-there touch.

 _Shit._

But- she's either absolutely oblivious to the gesture or she straight up doesn't care- and he can't seem to make up his mind on what's the best possibility-, because she just munches on the fries while looking mildly annoyed.

Ash yawns behind her hand.

"We go back to the Tower, yeah?"

"But you haven't finished your food," she points out.

"I can finish it there."

She debates it for a second or two, but her exhaustion wins. She nods.

"I'll run us there-"

"No," she cuts him off, "I'd…. rather walk, honestly."

"Okay, we walk."

She nods once again, stands up from her seat and-

"Is that my hoodie?"

Startled, the witch looks down at the dark blue garment she's wearing, then back at him. She opens her mouth, shifts on her place, closes it again.

" _Ash_ ," he whines, "you _know_ I've been looking for it for _weeks."_

She makes a noncommittal sound- something between 'sorry' and 'I don't care', but at least she's got the decency to avoid his eyes.

A lightbulb goes off on his head.

"Tony was looking for one of his shirts- do you have that one too?"

She rolls her eyes- her lack of verbal response says it all.

* * *

"Here," right outside of her room she begins to take off his hoodie.

He stops her with a motion.

"Keep it," he says, finally voicing what he'd been thinking for ages now. "You look good in blue."

* * *

It's almost a month after the barbecue that finds Pietro, Tony and Steve in the kitchen, all bent over a magazine marketed towards teenagers who care about things like fashion, love, and celebrities- and the last category is one that they are part of, to a certain extent.

"I mean," Steve says, pointing at a picture with several members of the team in it, "at least they just put up our good shots?"

"Says you," Tony rolls his eyes, pointing at another photograph, this one of him, talking to some children, "you and your perfect white teeth. I think I sneezed in here."

"Is not so bad- and is not the good publicity you wanted, yeah?"

"I guess. Even if their photographers suck. Am I really this _un_ photogenic? No, wait Speedy, don't answer that."

They spend some time pointing at different pictures and making comments about their and their teammates faces, gestures, whatever they were caught doing in the moment.

(Natasha and that one powerful glare directed to the lens, possibly because the photographer didn't know when to take a break from the intense flashes, Clint and his mouth surrounded by powdered sugar, Wanda sitting down on the ground, using her powers to braid three girls' hair at the same time, Sam making bunny ears behind Tony's head-)

"I'm thinking of getting copies of these pictures," the millionaire says, "could be a good Christmas present for everyone- oh, hey there your witchiness."

Fuming, Ash stomps inside the kitchen, her ear glued to her phone. Laughter- loud and obnoxious- could be heard from the other side of the line.

"What do you mean, this is _hilarious_? Aidan, I pay you for a reason! It is so that you keep me out from the- no I don't care that this is the best thing you've seen in two years!" She throws her free hand up in exasperation. "What do you _want_? I can give you more money- listen, I'm willing to give you my _firstborn_. Yes I'm aware of my own feelings towards children, I'm willing to get _pregnant_ somehow and then give you my firstborn, that's how serious I am. Aidan. _Aidan_ \- no, don't you _dare_ -"

She stares at her phone for a few seconds, then rubs the bridge of her nose in annoyance. A migraine is coming, she can feel it.

"Something wrong?" Steve asks.

The witch turns to him suddenly, with a carefully blank face and the barest hint of a raised eyebrow; her eyes glide then to the magazine spread on the counter. She stalks, pushes Tony aside without much care before rapidly flipping through the pages, slamming the magazine on the countertop once more, on a page of the spread they hadn't got to yet.

"That. That's what wrong." Why couldn't Aidan just do his fucking job?

Because it was _funny_ to him, that's why, apparently. Retaliation was coming, in one way or another, and she started to mentally list all the spells, all the curses- she could collapse his lungs, one at a time, briefly, for random intervals, she could dissect him from the inside, she could make him afraid of his own shadow, she could make sure every time he opened his stupid, obnoxious mouth blood came gushing through-

"Oh my God," she hears Tony say, somewhere on her periphery.

Steve is trying to hide a smile, looking at the picture, and Pietro has gone suddenly still, _very_ still.

It's a shot of them, him and her, on that spot under the tree, surrounded by stray rays of sunshine, it almost looks like a postcard. He's smiling softly- so, so softly-, all up in her space, tucking a flower behind her ear and looking _so_ very smitten by the girl in front of him.

And the witch's eyes are wide, staring into his, allowing his actions, not quite smiling but her face definitely gentler than usual. There's confusion in the arches of her eyebrows, a breath caught in the tightness of her throat.

And, of course, next to the picture, there's a small article, the gossip sort of kind, where the writer speculates as of who is this white-haired girl- does Pietro Maximoff have a secret girlfriend? Is she just a very lucky fan that caught his eye? _('Oh, the rest of us poor ladies, let's try to control our sobbing, it seems that the heart of Quicksilver has a name written over it!'_ )

Pietro looks from Steve, who offers him a sympathetic glance, to Tony, who has mirth dancing in his eyes, to Ash who's-

Absolutely and ridiculously oblivious to his distress. She's still walking, muttering softly words that have dark promises tenderly laced around the letters, running a hand through her hair over and over again- and, yet again he has to ask himself,

Doesn't she realise, or she just doesn't care?

As abruptly as she'd come, the witch turns her heel again, skirt swishing around her knees, and purposely walking out of the room.

"Wait!" Tony calls after her, "what are you going to do?"

"What I always do whenever I can't fix something!" She throws over her shoulder, gesturing wildly with her hands, "ignore it until it goes away!"

Pietro covers his face with his hands, sighing into them. He needs to talk to his sister about this, Wanda's the one who's good at feelings, she can probably make this mess better.

Steve pats his shoulder once, while Tony just idly taps at the glossy paper with a finger, going over numbers and dates in his head.

"So," he says, "want me to definitely get you a copy of this one or…?"

Pietro, unable to speak at the moment, just nods.

* * *

"Please, Wanda."

"Listen," she says in Sokovian, running her fingers through his hair, "whatever's going on between you and Ash, it's _between you and Ash."_

"But did she ever say something to you? About me?"

"Pietro."

"Please? I'm _dying_ , sister."

"Figure it out," she shrugs with one shoulder, "I'm not going to meddle, no one should. So whatever it is for her, you figure it out with her. No one else."

"And what if for her it isn't-"

"Then it's not, and that's that."

* * *

"You _forgot_."

She's there once again, in the Nightmare, sitting in front of the mirage that it's both her and not quite her at the same time. There are no thorns now trying to snag her skin, no vines curling around her throat- the Nightmare is, as it had been before: with that odd sense of calmness, of belonging, despite the hidden dangers in this timeless land.

"Me? Don't you mean us?" Ash says to that mouth full of teeth that's munching on butterflies again.

"No, not this time," her mirror image swallows an insect, "this is not on me. The blame is on you, little witch."

Ash makes a face at as not-her puts another helpless butterfly in her mouth.

"What did I forgot?"

"You forgot," the smile that follows is ironic, too wide, "you got distracted and you forgot, and for that, they're going to suffer."

* * *

 _What was it?_ she thinks as she walks down the halls of the headquarters, _what did I forgot?_ , and it's not here, she knows- or, thinks that she might know if she saw it, whatever it was, that odd warning, the omen that distorted piece of herself gave her.

 _What is it?_ As she makes a sharp turn to avoid Nick Fury and the inevitable argument they were probably going to have, _what?_ As she looks at Wanda talk to that one with red skin, as she gets ready to depart on a mission she _smiles_ at him and _oh_ , a part of Ash thinks, _how come I didn't know this?_ But that part is shushed, ordered to put those thoughts aside, for the moment, to keep searching, looking, anywhere, everywhere.

Her steps stop at a corner, bumping into someone- a new-ish agent, some guy with a perfectly forgettable face, with average hair and eyes and so easy to lose in a crowd.

"Whoops!" He says as he steadies her- and she recoils from his touch, as if she's been burnt upon contact.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," and _why_ is he still talking, "I was in a rush to get to the hangar I guess," God, make him _stop_ talking, "I don't think we've met before? What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." She can feel all her hackles raised, a cat that hisses in her chest, she has no time for this, she needs to, she needs to-

"Right," he clears his throat, "you're the, uh, the linguist, right?"

"Yes."

Her stunted replies leave him feeling awkward, is he going to let her keep doing what she needs to do, now? Has her absolute reticence for being social scared him off?

But _no_ , instead, he continues:

"I've seen you around, sometimes. Do you think, whenever you're free, we could-?

"I'm busy that day."

"But you don't know when-"

"I'm always busy. _Always_. So no."

He clears his throat yet again, and moves aside to let her pass, and it's not until right before they part ways that he shoots her a smile and-

And the world just stops. Tilts on its axis.

She looks back but he's already gone and there's a feeling in her throat, like there's something inside there, sliding, trying to get out; something dark and scaly and what, what, what, what-

The snake.

She _forgot_ the snake.

She runs to the hangar.

* * *

 **Am I terrible? Yes, but more importantly am I sorry? No.**

 **The Lady of Pain and the city of Sigil both belong to the D &D lore. The Lady is a very enigmatic entity that I've always found myself intrigued by.**


End file.
